


Christmas With You

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ghost Mary, M/M, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Probably other stuff that is not fluff, Winter, also established relationship because I jump around in time a lot, except for the ghost i guess, hopefully some humor, secret tattoos, she's only in two chapters though, though there is actually a plot line running through here believe it or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 23,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Watch Sherlock, John and Rosie over the years as they celebrate the season as only they can.Latest update: Day 31:Last Night/New Year: Their relationship has progressed slowly over the last month, and now John has one more thing he needs to tell Sherlock. Well, two more things, actually."Just shut up for a minute and let me show you this, all right?"Sherlock shut up, at a loss for what John might want to show him. By taking off his dressing gown while in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock did not actually object to John undressing in his bedroom, but he thought it would be more of a romantic process, at least the first time.





	1. Bundled Up

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets are written as part of the Sherlock December Ficlet challenge. [The prompts can be found here.](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/post/167644180668/sherlock-december-ficlets) Join us if you'd like! My ficlets will be focused on Parentlock and will most likely jump around in time quite a bit.

It sounded like someone was trying to kick their way into the renovated Baker Street flat, because that was exactly what was happening. John crouched down a bit to make himself less of a target before pulling open the door, ready to tackle the intruder, only to reveal Sherlock standing in the hallway. 

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed, tipping his chin to motion at Rosie, who was strapped to his chest, sound asleep. He was holding her nappy changing bag and several more bags from the shops in one hand and using the other to keep Rosie's head from lolling about too much as she slept. Which was unnecessary, as she was now ten months old, but Sherlock was always overly cautious with her.

"Shh? Me?" John stepped aside to let them in, quietly closing the door behind them. "You're the one who was trying to kick down the door."

"My hands were full." He let all the bags he was holding fall to the floor with a thud; Rosie startled at the noise, jerking upright in her carrier and whacking Sherlock's chest with her head.

"Shh," Sherlock repeated, this time in a much gentler voice, running his hand over Rosie's thin curls to soothe her. She sniffled and rubbed at her face but didn't actually start crying. She did always seem to behave better for Sherlock than for John himself. 

"Help me get her out of this thing," Sherlock said, starting to unbuckle the clasps on the baby carrier. When he'd loosened enough of the straps, John lifted her out, raising her high over his head for a moment to hear her delighted squeals. 

"Rosie darling. You get heavier every day, don't you?" He unzipped her tiny puffy coat and tossed it onto his chair, then kissed her forehead and set her down inside the section of the sitting room that they'd gated off and childproofed. She spied her favorite toy, a set of colorful wooden stacking rings that were fun to pull off and fling across the room, and grabbed a piece off of it, though today she seemed more interested in chewing on it than throwing it.

John glanced away from her to see Sherlock still struggling to free himself from the carrier, which was a tight fit over his Belstaff coat. "Come here," John said, and Sherlock stepped toward him, lowering his hands so John could release the last two buckles for him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. He dropped the carrier on top of Rosie's coat and then slipped off his own. "It's freezing out but apparently adding twenty-odd pounds of baby to your outfit warms you considerably."

"She's only eighteen pounds," John said.

"I think she's gained in the last week." Sherlock hung up his Belstaff and then shimmied out of his suit coat, draping it over the back of one of the chairs at the desk. 

John watched the lines of Sherlock's shirt pull tight across his back when he moved; there were sweat marks running down it corresponding to where the straps of the baby carrier had fallen while he wore it, but that didn't lessen the appeal. John suppressed a sigh and didn't let himself think about Sherlock taking off his shirt to cool down even more. Better to imagine him bundled up with a baby on his chest—also appealing, but not as arousing and much more realistic, anyway.

Sherlock turned around, stretching his neck and arms and grimacing at the motion. He didn't seem to notice John staring. "I can't carry her like that for much longer."

"It's easier if you wear her on your back, you know. Plus it makes it easier to carry things. And open doors."

"Makes it easier for her to pull my hair, you mean."

"Ah, well. Can you blame her?"

Sherlock gave him a brief puzzled look but then went on talking about Rosie. "I think we need to push up the deadline for her to learn to walk—"

"She's got a deadline now, does she?"

"Of course. Walking by age one, though I suspect she'll get there before then. She's doing very well with hanging onto things and cruising, and yesterday she let go of my hand and stood for a few seconds before she tried to move and fell down. Let's get her walking by Christmas, hmm?"

John smiled and watched Sherlock step over the gate and sit down on the floor next to Rosie. He hadn't been looking forward to Christmas this year, because it hadn't felt like there was much to celebrate. But lately he'd found himself starting to smile and even laugh again occasionally, usually because of Rosie. Or Sherlock. Or Sherlock and Rosie. Maybe with their help he'd be able to put this horrible year behind him, and survive until the new one.


	2. Wish List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm already jumping way ahead in time! But we'll probably see baby Rosie again this month.

Rosie had no idea what she should write on the paper laying on the table in front of her. Miss Banks had said they were going to make holiday wish lists, which sounded fun, but then she told the class that they weren't to make the lists for themselves. They had to think of what the other people in their families might want, and write that down instead. Which was a lot harder to do. Miss Banks said they could write anything at all, even if it cost a lot of money, but it still wasn't easy to think of what the rest of her family might want.

"You should put rings for your dad and Sherlock."

"Rings?" Rosie looked up from her paper in surprise. Hannah Springer, who sat at the same table with her and always bragged about how she had more friends than anyone else, hadn't been speaking to Rosie all week, and now she wanted to offer her advice on school work? 

"Yeah. Wedding rings," Hannah said, and put her chin on her hands, sighing happily. "So then you can have two dads."

Rosie frowned at her. "I don't need two dads. I have one dad and one Sherlock. That's way better."

"But they could get married! You could be in their wedding and wear a beautiful dress and—"

"I hate wearing dresses and they don't want to get married."

"Why not? They're together, aren't they?" Hannah made an annoying kissy face. "They sleep in the same bed, don't they?"

"Well, yeah, of course they do."

"My mum says grown-ups should only sleep in the same bed together if they're married to each other."

Rosie stared at her for a moment, then went back to her blank piece of paper. She printed the words "Wish List" at the top. "My mum was married to my dad, but then she died. I guess they must have slept in the same bed together before that, though."

Hannah made another annoying face, then smiled. "But now your dad could marry Sherlock instead! It's okay for two boys to get married, you know."

Everyone knew that. "I know. But they don't want to get married. They just want to be them."

"Your family is weird, Rosie."

"They're better than yours."

"No, they're not." Hannah tossed her long hair over her shoulder. "My family is the best. And I know just what I'm going to write on my list for them. My mum would like a black, sparkly dress, and my dad would like a very fast red car, and they could drive to a fancy restaurant together. Wouldn't your dad want to do that with Sherlock?"

"No." Rosie thought about it, then picked up her pencil to start writing. "My dad would want a new first aid kit. So if anyone gets hurt on a case or with an experiment, he can fix them right away." She wrote that down on the paper, then thought of an even better gift. "And inside the first aid kit is a secret compartment with a big knife in it. The kind that folds up. In case there are any villains and he has to fight them."

"Your dad fights villains?" Hannah had put down her own pencil before she'd even finished writing her parents' names.

"Sometimes," Rosie said. "I'm not supposed to know about it, though." She didn't write the knife part on the list, since it was supposed to be a secret.

"What about Sherlock? Would he want a knife, too? Or maybe a sword!"

"Hmm." Rosie thought some more. "I think he'd want a pack of gum. So in case he wants to have a cigarette again, instead he can chew gum. Oh, and a new secret disguise, because he says it's hard to go on cases when everyone knows who he is. Then he and Dad could fight all the villains together."

Hannah stared at her for a long time. Rosie could tell that she was jealous, but she wouldn't admit it. Instead she said, again, "Your family is really weird," and then scooted her chair farther away from Rosie's.

Rosie shrugged and turned her attention back to her paper. She still needed to think of something for Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Gram and Grandad. Who were still her grandparents even if her dad and Sherlock weren't married. Hannah Springer didn't know anything at all.


	3. All Dressed Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping around in time again. I expect to return to various points in Rosie's first December as this series continues. I'm pretty much making it up as I go along.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, wearing an immaculate grey suit over a lighter grey shirt and a scowl deep enough to make any child but Rosie burst into tears. "This is ridiculous. I haven't been forced to go to church on Christmas Eve since I was a child."

John looked up from the nappy bag; he'd been contemplating adding a complete change of clothes just in case, though Rosie had only the one fancy Christmas dress that Mrs. Hudson had bought her. "I told you, you don't have to come with us."

"Of course I do. I'm her godfather."

"That doesn't mean you have to go with her every time she goes to church."

"I was there when she was baptized. And since you haven't set foot in a church with her since then, I don't know why you're bothering to go tonight."

John shrugged. "I want to go." True, Mary had been the one who'd felt strongly about having Rosie baptized, but John still wanted to take her to the Christmas Eve service. He had fond memories of going as a child. 

"You've finally got her to sleep all night, and now you're taking her to Midnight Mass. Even though it begins at 11, which of course makes perfect sense." 

"It's a special occasion. One late night won't hurt her." John set the bag by the door and reached down to pick up Rosie from where she'd been busily gnawing on a ring of plastic keys that doubled as a teether.

"Six months from now, she will have no memory of today but I will still be scarred from having to accompany you," Sherlock said.

"You don't need to come with us," John repeated. "Or come and just delete the memory later."

"Can't delete anything with the two of you," Sherlock grumbled. He dropped down into his chair with a huff, but then put his arms out for Rosie.

John handed her off. She was still holding the teething keys, which were covered with a generous coating of saliva, but she bounced willingly out of John's arms and into Sherlock's. Sherlock caught her and tried to get her to sit on his lap. "Careful, little one. You'll wrinkle your pretty dress."

John hoped wrinkling was the worst that happened to it. It was fairly understated as baby Christmas dresses went, shimmery silver with a row of small bows at the waist and a matching headband that she refused to wear, but he was certain it had cost more than any other outfit she owned. It seemed a shame to spend so much on something she would only wear once--maybe twice, if it stayed clean for tomorrow--but Mrs. Hudson had insisted on getting it and he'd learned not to question her about money.

Rosie dropped the keys onto Sherlock's lap. She squirmed around in his grasp until she was facing him, then tried to climb up the front of his chest. She did really like to play with his hair. John had had his hands in Sherlock's hair a couple of times over the past few weeks, so he understood the temptation.

He hid his smile, watching from the corner of his eye as Sherlock distracted Rosie by pretending to chew on the keys himself. Once he had her giggling, he carefully turned her around again so she ended up sitting primly on his lap and her special Christmas dress wasn't wrinkled. Though it did have a big wet spot from the keys on the front of it, as did Sherlock's trousers.

"We should head out now if we want to get seats," John said, and picked up the headband that matched Rosie's dress. One more try. He caught both of her hands in his right hand and stretched the band over her head with his left. Perfect. Her hair was baby-thin but long enough that the headband looked good, he thought, and actually served the function of keeping her fringe out of her eyes.

"Bhaaaa!" Rosie shouted, and dropped the teether into Sherlock's lap again so she could use both hands to pull the headband off and throw it towards the fireplace, which luckily was not lit. 

John sighed. He hadn't expected her to wear it for long, but it would have been nice to at least get a picture for Mrs. Hudson. Maybe by the time they got to the church the drool stains on her dress and Sherlock's suit would be dried enough that he could snap a photo of them both dressed up in their Christmas best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea when or why John has had his hands in Sherlock's hair over the last few weeks but I hope we all find out!


	4. Winter Sports

They hadn't planned to go ice skating.

Rosie had been invited to join a group of her friends at the outdoor rink, and John and Sherlock intended to drop her off and then do a bit of Christmas shopping while she skated. But as soon as the three of them got within sight of the rink, Rosie said, "I've got my ticket." She patted her coat pocket; her skates were slung over her shoulder. "Just give me some money so I can get some hot cocoa and I'll meet you back here in an hour."

John frowned at her. "We were going to at least watch you go round a few times."

"No! I don't want you to. I'm not a baby. Just give me the money."

John handed her some cash. "Are you sure you don't need help lacing up your skates?"

"Dad, I'm thirteen!"

"Well, we're not going to just leave you here alone. Are your friends here yet?"

"Yes!" She pointed to a gaggle of young teen girls sitting on a bench, whispering and giggling as they put on their skates.

"Yes, I see Danielle and Lucy," Sherlock confirmed, and then turned in a slow circle. John knew that he was scanning the ice rink and its vicinity for any signs of danger. After a few moments of observation, he gave John a subtle nod.

"Fine," John said. "I'll expect some change back. You don't need to buy anything other than one cup of cocoa."

"Sure, whatever! Just go!" Rosie made a shooing motion and then turned on her heel and ran off toward her friends.

"Did we just get ditched by our little girl?" John asked.

"It seems that way," Sherlock said. "Too embarrassed to be seen with us in public."

John sighed, watching Rosie reach her friends and be pulled into the group's embrace. He glanced over at Sherlock. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, squinting at him, then said, "It's been over four decades and I only took lessons for a year, but I would be willing to try."

John laughed. "We're horrible parents."

"Nonsense. Being thoroughly embarrassed by your parents is a natural part of growing up. Come on." He held out his hand and John took it and they walked together to the ticket window.

They waited in the queue to get skates; Rosie was already out on the ice, oblivious to their presence. When they finally reached the rental counter, Sherlock scowled. "They only have hockey skates in my size." 

"Yeah, so? I'll take an eight, please," John told the attendant.

"I learnt with figure skates," Sherlock said.

"Of course you did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that hockey is a team sport that requires cooperation with other people. Of course you'd choose figure skating instead."

"I was nine." 

"Okay," John said. "And I'm going to guess nine-year-old you wasn't any more of a team player than 50-year-old you." He turned to the attendant again. "He needs a twelve."

Once they were laced up and on the rink, John did feel a moment of sympathy for Sherlock. John was no expert, but he understood that the different styles of skates required different techniques to balance and move effectively. He himself hadn't skated since he was a teen, but as soon as he was on the ice the muscle memory of how to propel himself forward without falling returned. Sherlock, meanwhile, stood in one spot, seemingly flummoxed by the novel sensation.

John promised himself he wouldn't laugh too much and that he would help Sherlock up when he inevitably fell, but after standing motionless for a few moments, Sherlock lifted first his right and then his left foot, sketching movements in the air as if rehearsing. He rubbed his gloved hands together, adjusted the fall of his coat, then took off around the rink. 

Of course he was fast and graceful and a better skater than John, even his first time on hockey skates. The git. John pushed off after him. He knew how to go fast, too, but his most reliable method of stopping involved putting both hands out to soften the impact as he ran himself into the low walls of the rink. 

Once he caught up to Sherlock, however, he didn't need to stop. They grabbed each other's hands and circled the rink together, following the flow of the crowd. Every now and then they got a glimpse of Rosie as she skated in the midst of her cluster of friends. She hadn't noticed they were there yet, but it was only a matter of time.


	5. Mistletoe

Sherlock had miscalculated. Agreeing to spend Rosie's second Christmas at his parents' house had seemed a harmless enough concession, until he and John and Rosie actually arrived, early in the day on Christmas Eve.

Mummy had decorated; of course she had. She always did. Trees and candles and lights and pine boughs and holly and mistletoe. Did she always have mistletoe? How would he know? It certainly wasn't the type of information he would ever have cared to retain. He thought back two years: Mycroft's laptop sitting on the kitchen table beneath the potatoes; Mummy catching them smoking; Mary and John reconciling after months of not speaking. Had there been mistletoe? If so, John may have planned to kiss Mary beneath it, but Sherlock had drugged her before he had the chance. 

He could ask John—maybe he would remember. But as soon as they'd arrived today, John had disappeared into one of the guest rooms to change Rosie, leaving Sherlock alone with his parents in the sitting room. 

Dad squatted in front of the wood stove to stoke the fire while Mummy waved her hands at Sherlock. "Take off your coat and scarf. You can drop your bags in one of the bedrooms."

One of the bedrooms. He nodded and turned toward the hallway, but didn't take off his coat or pick up his overnight bag yet. John had gone into the first room to change Rosie. Sherlock knew that Dad had set up a cot in there for her. But there was also a double bed; he could see it through the open door, freshly made up with a red-covered duvet to match the rest of the house's Christmas theme. A double bed, a cot for Rosie. Was John meant to sleep in there with her? There was another bedroom just down the hall, also with a double bed. Coincidentally or not, that second room had been Sherlock's bedroom as a child. Was he expected to sleep in there still? Alone? 

He and John had not kept their relationship a secret, but neither had they advertised it. Mycroft knew, of course. Did their parents? They knew John and Rosie had moved back into Baker Street with him, but Sherlock had never mentioned the sleeping arrangements to them. Why would he? Even if it had been any of their business, John's move into Sherlock's bed and bedroom had occurred gradually over the last year. There'd never been a day when he woke up and thought, John and I are together—I should tell Mummy and Dad.

He didn't think they would object, if they knew. In fact, perhaps Mummy's overuse of mistletoe this year was her subtle method of telling him that she did know, and approved. He wished he could remember if it had been here in previous years. That would tell him if it was simply an innocuous bit of décor, or if she had hung it with the expectation that he and John would kiss. Or maybe she'd hung it so she and Dad could kiss. No, do not pursue. Delete. Go back. He and John could kiss. Should they? In front of Mummy and Dad? Why? They weren't exhibitionists. Were they? John wasn't. Was Sherlock? He had no idea.

"Sherlock, your bags?" Mummy repeated. He heard a thump as she tapped one of them with her foot. Mummy was kicking his luggage. He made a noncommittal noise and waved the fingers of one hand in her direction. While the dilemma of where to put his suitcase was real, it was not the most pressing matter right now. John would come out of the room with Rosie soon. There was mistletoe dangling from the ceiling at the entry to the hall. Should he wait for John to pass first, to prevent an awkward meeting beneath it? Or would John then think he was avoiding him? Did John want to kiss in front of Sherlock's parents? Had John even noticed the mistletoe? Likely not; he was not particularly observant and had been more concerned with getting a fresh nappy on Rosie after the long car ride than with admiring Mummy's decorating efforts.

Sherlock blinked his eyes closed for a moment, trying to find a solution. He heard John say "All done!" and then Rosie came running out of the room alone, headed straight for Sherlock's father, who caught her and lifted her high with a grin. Right. So John was alone now, in the room that he may or may not be sharing with Rosie, while Sherlock did or did not sleep in a different room, and who knew how to solve any of these mysteries, and would anyone try to stop him if he tried to run out to the car and drive into town for a pack of cigarettes?

John had still not emerged from the bedroom, but Sherlock could no longer endure this uncertainty. He bent to grab the handle of his overnight bag, then dropped it again. "John!" he shouted with as much urgency as he could muster, which was substantial. 

"What is it?" John appeared in the bedroom doorway, still holding a baby wipe in his hand. 

"I—" Sherlock began, and glanced back at his parents, who were now both focused entirely on Rosie. 

"What's wrong?" John stepped out into the hallway, trying to peer past Sherlock to see what Rosie was doing.

"Nothing," Sherlock said. Except this was all much too much for anyone to have to deal with, and he needed to put a stop to it now. He took two steps so that he was standing directly beneath the infernal plant. "Come here."

John looked confused, but came out to meet Sherlock. Sherlock yanked the baby wipe from his hand and let it drop to the floor, then pointed up at the ceiling above them. When John tilted his head up to look, Sherlock tilted his down. Their lips met and they were kissing.

It wasn't their best kiss ever: John's lips were cold and they both had stale breath and were over-dressed for the occasion, but it served its purpose, or so he hoped. Though as the kiss ended and he pulled away from John he realized he had no idea whether his parents had even seen it. No matter. If they hadn't, he would just have to make sure he and John kissed again every time they passed by any of the other sprigs of mistletoe that Mummy had hung throughout the house.


	6. Cold & Cozy

The power was still on, so they still had hot drinks and warm showers and a hair dryer for after the showers, but there hadn't been any heat in 221 Baker Street for nearly 24 hours. By late afternoon, when it became clear that the repair company would not have anyone out to fix it that day, Mrs. Hudson left to stay with Mr. Chatterjee. John had spent much of the day fiddling around with the furnace while Sherlock entertained Rosie upstairs, though after dinner they switched places and Sherlock tried his hand at furnace repair. He couldn't fix it, either, and the time spent in the basement chilled him so that he felt permanently cold.

When he finally gave up and came back up to their flat, John had just put Rosie to bed, though it was several hours past her usual bedtime. 

Sherlock checked the thermostat in the hall. The building may have been old, but it held heat well. It was still 15 degrees in the flat, which wasn't too bad. They'd had a fire burning most of the day, which had helped some, but now that everyone was going to bed they'd let it die down.

John came down the stairs from Rosie's room, rubbing his hands together. He was wearing two jumpers and Sherlock didn't even have the urge to tease him about it. "Okay," John said. "I think we'll be fine overnight. The forecast says low of three to four, so the pipes shouldn't freeze. I can take Rosie to nursery on the way into the surgery if you want to wait here for the repairman in the morning."

"All right," Sherlock said. Dealing with one repairman was preferable to navigating preschool drop-off any day. "How's Rosie holding up?"

"She's cold, and complaining about it, but I think mostly because she's not used to being uncomfortable. We coddle her too much."

"You're right, John. We should definitely start depriving her more, toughen her up. Maybe turn the heat off for several hours each day, make her run around in shorts and a t-shirt."

"You know what I mean." John reached the bottom of the stairs and shivered.

"I do. Come here." Sherlock put his arms out and John stepped into his embrace. Sherlock tightened his hold and burrowed his nose into John's hair, which was relatively warm. 

"Daddy!" Rosie's cry carried down the stairs. "Sherlock! I need you!"

Sherlock let his grip slacken. He wanted nothing more than for Rosie to go to sleep so he could crawl under a mound of blankets with John and hibernate until the furnace repairman showed up in the morning.

He followed John up to Rosie's room. The air was chilly but not unreasonably so, despite the lack of a fireplace on this level. John had tucked Rosie into her warmest fleece pyjamas and given her two extra blankets. She squirmed deeper beneath them now. "It's still cold, Daddy." 

John clicked on the small bedside lamp. "You've got lots of warm blankets, darling."

"The sheets are cold."

"You're wearing socks, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.

Rosie nodded.

"Then you can't really feel the sheets, can you?"

"My hands feel them!" She pushed back the covers to show him. 

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. He took her hands—they were warmer than his—and gently pushed them back beneath the blanket. "The sheets will warm up in a few minutes, I promise." 

"No, it's too cold!" Rosie rolled onto her side and curled herself into a ball, then began to cry. Sherlock thought her tears and general grumpiness were more likely due to being awake well past her bedtime than to the lack of heat in the flat, but he and John needed to deal with it either way. And tonight probably wasn't the time to start enforcing a stricter disciplinary regimen.

John seemed to agree. He glanced at Sherlock, then darted his eyes toward the door to her room, questioning. 

Sherlock sighed and then nodded. As long as he got to go to sleep under a pile of blankets, it didn't matter too much who was in the bed with him, he supposed.

"All right, Rosie," John said. "Do you want to come downstairs and sleep in the bed with us? Just this one time, and we're going right to sleep, no talking or playing games."

"Yes, Daddy." She wiped at her eyes and sniffled. "That would be lovely." 

Sherlock grinned at her phrasing and then drew back her covers and lifted her out of the bed. John picked up her plush elephant and the topmost blanket from the pile she'd been under, a heavy wool one that they'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson's empty flat, and led them all downstairs and into their room. 

Rosie bounced into the middle of the bed, then insisted that Sherlock join her while John went to change into his pyjamas. Sherlock didn't even bother to argue with her. He wearing jogging bottoms and wool socks and a thick fleece pullover, and he left them all on and crawled into bed with her. She was right about the cold sheets—he could feel them through all his layers.

He stretched out on his side, pulling up all the covers as high as he could. Rosie lay on her back in the center of the bed, her head on the edge of John's pillow. She shivered once, then closed her eyes, a smile finally gracing her face. He didn't know if she would fall asleep immediately, but he thought he would. "John, hurry up. We want to go to sleep."

"All right, all right. Patience." John emerged from the loo and flicked off the light next to the bed. "Got room for me in there, too?"

"Of course, Daddy," Rosie said, and patted the mattress next to her without bringing her arm from beneath the blankets or opening her eyes.

John climbed into bed next to her. Sherlock felt cold feet brush against his legs, well beneath the spot where Rosie's short legs ended. John did always hate to wear socks to bed, even when it was freezing. Sherlock could feel warmth radiating from the rest of him, though, as he lay on his side, an arm over Rosie, his hand stopping just short of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock smiled at him in the dim glow of the street lights through the windows. He was still very cold, but now he was also quite cozy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened in my house on Monday, except the child who was not used to being cold is 13 and was forced to sleep in her own bed. By midnight she had kicked all 5 blankets off.


	7. Christmas Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 221B to help me catch up with the daily prompts.

They'd only received one Christmas card this year. Doubtless there were all sorts of electronic greetings that John had been fielding, but just one paper card arrived in the post. From Rosie, of course, with a photo of herself and her husband and the baby, all smiling and dressed in matching jumpers. Cute, Sherlock had to admit, at least to himself, though a personal visit would have been much more welcome than a card.

Rosie wasn't coming for Christmas this year. She and Max had brought baby Sam out to Sussex last Christmas, so this year they were spending the holiday in Scotland with Max's family. Which seemed fair, though if Sherlock recalled correctly—and he did—children were much more interesting at thirteen months than they were as newborns. 

He and John had seen Sam last month, though, at his first birthday. He'd been newly walking, hesitantly tottering around in tiny baby trainers. Rosie said he was running now—she'd shared video, but it wasn't the same as seeing him in person. Next week—Rosie was coming for New Year's. They would see him then. Until then they had this card, and their weekly video chat, and a box that had arrived yesterday full of gifts they probably didn't need. Sherlock supposed that was enough. It would have to be.


	8. Warming Up

The case had been complicated and ultimately satisfying, and they made it back home by early evening. John retrieved Rosie from Mrs. Hudson's care, fed and bathed her and then turned her over to Sherlock for the nightly ritual of one storybook before sleep. A different routine from their old life, but it had not taken any of them long to adapt. 

When Sherlock came downstairs from Rosie's room, he found John had started a fire and turned their chairs slightly to face it. John was sitting in his, shoes and socks piled neatly on the floor to one side, his bare feet stretched out toward the warmth. There was a glass of whisky in his hand and another waiting on the end table for Sherlock.

Sherlock picked the glass up and turned toward his own chair, only to find it covered in chunky puzzle pieces and rainbow-colored plastic blocks. Rosie hadn't quite got the hang of walking yet, but she was quite adept at pulling herself to her feet and dumping her baskets of toys wherever she happened to be. He sipped at his drink, staring at the clutter for a moment. His life had changed even more than he'd realized. A few years ago, it would have been only his own mess preventing him from sitting in his own chair in his own flat. A few years ago, he would have been outraged at the idea that another person could have caused such inconvenience. A few years ago, he would have swept all the toys to the floor in a rage, or yelled out to John or Mrs. Hudson to come clean them up for him. But now. Many things had changed, and not just his tolerance for the mayhem of baby Watson.

"Hold this." He handed his glass of whisky to John, pulled the ties of his dressing gown tighter around his waist, stretched his arms and shoulders, hearing his neck crackle with the movement, then dropped down to sit on the floor in front of John's chair. Wordlessly, he raised his hand for his glass and John returned it to him. "Thank you."

He sat for a few minutes, leaning forward against his upraised knees, drinking the whisky and feeling his face warm from both the alcohol and the fire. When he'd finished half the glass he stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned back against John's chair. His left arm came to rest alongside John's right leg; he heard John try to suppress a sharp inhalation of breath at the contact. Sherlock could move, yes—he could shift a few inches to the right so they were no longer touching. John could move, as well, if he wanted to. He could pull his legs to the side or get up and walk into the kitchen or run up the stairs to check on his daughter. If he wanted to.

Sherlock waited to see what would happen. Neither of them moved, save for a few more sips from their glasses. The fire crackled and snapped and a large chunk of log broke in half, the pieces falling onto the iron grate below. Sparks trying to escape were stopped by the screen that surrounded the blaze; if Sherlock pointed his toes he could have touched the metal.

Eventually he finished his drink. He set his glass on the floor and let his eyes fall closed as he tipped his head back to rest on the cushion of John's chair. John shifted behind him but did not move away. Good. Good. He would stay like this, for now. 

When he felt John's hand brush across his shoulder and then settle on the crown of his head he was not too surprised. Many things had changed, and it would not take them long to adapt.


	9. Ghosts of Christmas Past

If anyone had asked her back then, Mary would have said that last year had been the worst Christmas ever. Eight months pregnant, heartburn competing with backache to see which could make her more uncomfortable, and then she got to enjoy about thirty seconds of reconciliation with John before she passed out in his arms. When she woke up it was to the news that Sherlock had been arrested for shooting Magnussen, all to protect her. Which she then had to explain to Sherlock's parents, since Mycroft had vacated the premises. Yeah, definitely not the happiest of holidays. But at least last year she'd been alive.

Now it was almost Christmas again, and it had been six months since she'd held Rosie, six months since she'd talked to John, six months since she'd jumped in front of a bullet to save Sherlock's life. Rosie hadn't even been crawling six months ago, and now she was almost ready to walk. Six months since Mary had died and she still wasn't sure exactly how this whole being dead thing worked, because she certainly hadn't been _here_ for all of that time. She knew it was December based on the Christmas decorations she could see through the windows, but she herself had only been present for small snatches of time, blinking in and out of existence, with no control over where she was. At first she'd often ended up at her and John's house, but lately it was always the flat at Baker Street. Once in late summer she'd popped in to see Sherlock in hospital, looking much worse than the time she'd put him there, but she'd flickered away again so quickly that she'd never even known what happened to him. She wasn't even sure if he'd got the DVD she left for him, the one telling him how to save John, but she thought he must have, because he and John certainly seemed to have reconciled. 

She hadn't been here for the whole six months, but she'd been here enough to know what was going on. She'd seen Sherlock parenting Rosie more naturally than most fathers, and she'd seen John watching him, even when Rosie wasn't in his arms. She'd been here the day John and Rosie had moved in—there'd been some sort of accident before then, and they'd had to renovate the flat completely. She'd seen Sherlock spend hours staring into space in the evenings after John went up to the room he shared with Rosie, and she'd seen John sitting on his bed upstairs, and she knew he was thinking about coming back down. She'd seen those longing looks and unasked questions before, from both of them, while she was still alive, but since neither of them would ever confess to it, it hadn't mattered. 

Now, though. Finally, finally, it seemed that John had stopped worrying about straight and gay and what other people might think and Sherlock had stopped pretending that it was possible to be above emotion and that a lack of sentiment was a goal to which he should aspire. They were closer than they'd ever been to admitting to each other that they both wanted something more. And Mary prayed that the something more would be what they both needed, that it would give them what John hadn't found in their marriage and what Sherlock hadn't found in a needle. Because as good as they were at saving each other's lives, there were only so many times that they could do that before one of them failed and the game was really over. 

Last night the setting had been perfect—they'd solved a case and Rosie had gone to sleep with no problems and there was a fire and a few flakes of snow drifting in the air outside. If she could have had any sort of effect on the physical world, Mary would've moved their chairs closer to each other. But she hadn't needed to. They'd moved close all on their own—Sherlock sat on the floor and leaned against John's legs and after a while John put his hand in Sherlock's curls. He'd wanted to do that for ages; she knew he had. 

And then before anything else could happen she'd disappeared, or jumped, or slipped, or something, and now she was back in 221B alone. Most of a day had gone by, but not much more, based on the sun through the window and the toys still spread across Sherlock's chair. She didn't know how to leave the flat to find John and Sherlock and Rosie, so she would have to wait and see. It was too late for her, but maybe the three of them could have a happy Christmas this year.


	10. Food & Drink

"Lestrade! Come in, come in! So glad you could make it!" 

Greg almost turned around and walked out, because there was no way Sherlock could sound so happy to see him and actually be sincere about it. But Sherlock waved him into the flat and practically stripped his coat off him, pointing out the various holiday food and drinks that filled every table and counter in 221B. 

"Avoid the fruitcake, obviously, but the sticky toffee pudding is delicious. I haven't tried all the biscuits yet. Molly made the shortbread but she assures me she did it at home, not at work. Mr. Chatterjee brought the mince pies—they're leftovers from Speedy's, so...." He shrugged and then laughed, and pulled Greg farther into the kitchen. 

At first Greg had been surprised that Sherlock and John were hosting a party this year, but he guessed he understood the urge. It certainly hadn't been the best year for either the Holmes or the Watson families, but they'd survived—well, most of them had, anyway—and that fact alone must have seemed worth celebrating. And it was quite a large party, given the size of the flat. Neighbors, family, co-workers, homeless network: everyone had turned out, it seemed. Of course John was making the rounds with little Rosie, giving everyone the chance to hold her, although she seemed determined to squirm free of most people's grasps. An older man who looked almost exactly like Sherlock but nothing like Mycroft nearly dropped her—she slid off his lap onto the floor and then crawled immediately toward Sherlock, who scooped her up with an ease Greg never would've suspected.

"Aren't you up late, little lady?" Greg made a wide-eyed peek-a-boo face at her.

"She took a four-hour nap this afternoon," Sherlock said.

"Yeah? And what did you do to prepare for tonight?" He looked pointedly at Sherlock's forearm, covered by his suit coat—there was no way he was behaving this festively without any chemical enhancement.

"No. I don't do that now. Wouldn't, because—" He bounced Rosie into the air. She shrieked and he plopped her back down so she could crawl away toward Mycroft. "Though I have had a few more drinks than my usual," Sherlock admitted.

Ah, so that was it. Greg knew Sherlock couldn't handle his liquor—he still chuckled every time he remembered having to rescue him and John the morning after John's stag party. He clapped Sherlock on the back. "How about you show me where these drinks are, then?"

Sherlock guided Greg back out into the sitting room, where the desk had been cleared of its usual mess so it could host a variety of alcoholic temptations. Greg decided to play it safe and start with just a beer. 

"Sure you don't want some wassail?" Sherlock asked, ladling himself a cup. "You can't taste the alcohol at all!"

Greg laughed. "I'm sure that's true."

Sherlock joined in his laughter, then gulped the entire cup of wassail. He set the empty glass back down on the desk next to the clean ones, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "I've been waiting for you to get here, Greg. I need to talk to you privately."

Greg was so astonished that Sherlock still recalled his name that he didn't even stop to wonder what he might want to talk about. He let Sherlock lead him through the crowd of people down the hall and into his bedroom. 

Once inside, Sherlock clicked on a lamp and then sat on the edge of his bed. "Close the door."

Lestrade squinted at him but did as he asked. "What's up, Sherlock?" He still didn't know what to expect—probably something about a case, but why he'd want privacy for that, Greg wasn't sure.

"I really am quite drunk," Sherlock said. 

"Yeah, I picked up on that. I'm a detective, you know."

Sherlock didn't even make a wisecrack in return. Instead he sighed. "I probably wouldn't be talking to you if I were sober."

"Okay...."

"Not because I don't want to," Sherlock clarified. "I just wouldn't have the courage."

Greg took a step back toward the closed door. "Courage for what?"

"I need your advice. Or maybe...." Sherlock tipped his head from side to side a couple of times. "I need the opposite of your advice. How many times have you been divorced?"

"Just the once."

"I see. And how many susses—success—successful long-term relationships would you say you've had? An estimate, please?" He began to over-enunciate after the one stuttered word.

"I don't know," Greg said. "Four or five?"

"Does that include the one with the divorce?" 

"Sherlock, come on. What are you on about?"

"I need. Your advice. About John."

"Oh, I see. Has he found a new girl already? I thought he was still pretty broken up about Mary."

"No. No, no, no. Lestrade. No." Sherlock bounced up from the bed. "Have you not been paying attention?" He spun around in a circle, his suit coat flying out, but not as impressively as his overcoat would have. 

Greg himself would've fallen down if he'd tried to spin like that after more than a couple of drinks. "What—paying attention to what?" 

"To John! To me! To us!" Sherlock dropped back down to sit on the bed again, shoulders slumping.

"To you—oh! To you and John, you mean? Ah, Mrs. Hudson was right all these years, wasn't she?"

Sherlock frowned. "That seems unlikely. What was she right about?"

Greg sighed and sat down on the bed next to him. "Sherlock, are you asking me for advice about how to start a romantic relationship with John?" 

"I—" Sherlock looked at him and nodded, suddenly looking as young and as lost as he had the first time Greg had met him. 

Greg exhaled again and thought about what to say, or if he should even say anything at all. Sherlock and John. Together. Was that even a good idea? He'd seen the video of John punching and kicking Sherlock, just as he'd known about all the horrible things Sherlock had done to John over the years, not the least of which was forcing John to watch as he killed himself, and then letting him grieve for two years. Hell, they probably deserved each other. "Okay. Tell me what you're thinking about saying to him."

They talked for a good thirty minutes; at some point Sherlock grabbed Lestrade's beer and finished it off for him. "I hate beer," he declared, afterward. "I'm going to go get some more wassail to wash the taste away." He swayed a bit when he stood up this time, and Greg put a hand out to steady him.

"Maybe enough with the drinking tonight, especially if you're going to try to talk to John."

"Oh, right. Good idea. Good." Sherlock grinned at him. "What's the best way to get everyone else to leave immediately?"

Everyone else did not leave immediately. Instead they trickled out slowly over the next hour, despite Sherlock's efforts to frighten them away. When everyone that didn't live in the building but Lestrade was finally gone, Mrs. Hudson took a sleepy Rosie upstairs to her room.

At some point in the last half-hour or so, Sherlock had given up on getting rid of his guests and collapsed on the sofa, sprawled on his back. Someone had thrown an ugly red and green knitted blanket over him, covering most of his face. 

"Is he still alive?" Lestrade asked, mostly joking, as he pulled his coat on to leave.

John laughed. He seemed mildly tipsy, but nowhere near as drunk as Sherlock. He pulled the blanket down and bent over, dangling his fingers in front of Sherlock's nose to check his breathing. "Yeah, he's fine," he said, and patted Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock's whole face wrinkled in sleep and he let out one loud snore, then turned his face away from them, toward the back of sofa.

John straightened up, but as he did so he let his fingers glide through the hair on the side of Sherlock's head, an unexpected tenderness that made Lestrade think maybe John was drunker than he'd thought. 

Or maybe not. And maybe tomorrow after Sherlock woke up and took a couple aspirin, the two of them would have a lot to talk about. Greg grinned and wished John a very Merry Christmas as he left.


	11. Christmas Carols with Violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 221B.

"I think the whole thing is adorable." John glanced up from the newspaper he'd spread across the bed and smiled at Sherlock, who was getting dressed.

Sherlock's mirrored reflection glared at him as he adjusted his cuffs. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt—more or less what he wore every day, but today's outfit was special. Concert dress. He stalked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a different white shirt and began to unbutton the one he was wearing. "This is all your fault." 

"Nope. You brought this entirely on yourself."

"Untrue. If you hadn't worked late at the surgery last week so I had to pick Rosie up from choir rehearsal—" 

"You could have just picked her up and kept your mouth shut." 

"They were singing their carols unaccompanied!"

"The horror! Sherlock. No one at the nursing home they're going to cares what they sound like. They're primary school kids."

"Which is exactly why they need a musician to accompany them." He shook his head, frowning at his reflection. "Without my help, it's just a bunch of high-pitched screeching. Hardly an alto among them."

John snorted, turning the page of the newspaper. "Well, if that's the problem, you shouldn't be playing violin with them. You should sing—I bet they could really use a baritone."


	12. Winter Wonderland

John didn't work on Tuesdays, which made it Sherlock's favorite day of the week. He kept his own schedule clear of cases that rated less than an eight, and, as Rosie had grown older, had come to prefer the school year to summer holidays, because it meant he got John to himself for a whole day. On Tuesdays. 

So on the second Monday in December, when it snowed hard enough overnight to close the schools the next day, Sherlock was not exactly pleased.

Rosie, on the other hand, was thrilled. She had never seen so much snow in her life—the last time London had had a significant accumulation, she hadn't even been a year old, and he and John had kept her bundled up indoors. Which hadn't been a hardship, because back then she used to take regular naps, and still go to bed at a reasonable time, and he and John hadn't had to struggle to find time alone. Now some evenings John went to bed barely an hour later than she did.

Sherlock looked out the window at the snow, its blanketing beauty not nearly enough to make him forget that he was going to miss his weekly alone time with John. "Rosie!" he called. "Would you like to go over to the park? I think some of the other kids from the neighborhood are going to play in the snow." He couldn't send her outside unsupervised, but maybe there was a way....

She looked up from the tablet she'd been playing on all morning, her eyes wide. "I'll go get dressed!" she shouted, tossing the tablet onto the desk in her haste to get ready.

She didn't have a full snowsuit, but she had a warm parka and a pair of jogging bottoms pulled over her jeans would keep her dry for a little while in the snow. The temperature was above freezing now, and the wind had died down. He helped her get on her boots, hat and gloves and gave her a scarf for added warmth. "If you get cold or your skin starts to hurt, tell Mrs. Johnson," he told her, as they walked down the stairs to the front door.

"Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yes. She's taking you and Oliver to the park." He threw open the door just in time to catch Mrs. Johnson and her son, who lived three buildings down, as they walked by.

"Mrs. Johnson!" He smiled at her and switched to her first name. "Amy. Good to see you. You're taking Oliver over to the park to play?" He stepped off the stoop onto the pavement and shivered. He was wearing his overcoat but had left his scarf and gloves in the flat. "It's beautiful, but a bit chilly for me. Are you sure you want to play in this?" he asked, turning to look down at Rosie.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, and jumped into a mound of snow that had been shoveled away from the entrance to Speedy's. Oliver followed her, sending sprays of icy snow across the pavement.

Amy looked at Rosie and her son and then smiled at Sherlock. "I can take her over if you'd like. Oliver wants to build a snow fort. Maybe she can help him."

"Excellent!" Sherlock clapped his bare hands together, and then looked to his right. Even more perfectly timed than he'd hoped. Lisa Eaton had just emerged from her flat, trailing behind her twins, Lily and Noah, who were already engaged in throwing poorly-formed snowballs at each other. He turned to greet her. "Lisa! That color of that hat does wonders for your skin tone. And thank you so much for inviting Rosie over for hot cocoa after the kids have had enough of the snow."

"Er—" Lisa looked from her children over to Rosie and Oliver and then up at Sherlock.

He continued before she had the chance to object. "Of course, if you'd rather I bring all the children back to our flat instead, I'm sure I could concoct something warm for them to drink...."

"No, no, it's fine!" Lisa gave him a big smile that showed him she still remembered Rosie's fifth birthday party, even though that had been nearly three years ago and all of the children had enjoyed themselves immensely. "I have some biscuits, too," she said. "Would you like that, Rosie?"

"Of course!" Rosie bounced out of the snowbank toward Sherlock and wrapped her already snow-covered arms around his waist. "I'll see you and Daddy later!" she announced, and took off after Oliver, her running form surprisingly unimpeded by the extra layers she wore.

"Yes, you will," Sherlock said, waving goodbye to her and the others as they headed down the street. He could see the snow-covered hedges at the edge of the park from here. Beautiful. He rubbed his hands together and then went back inside to find John, locking the front door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am married with school-age children. Why do you ask?


	13. In Front of the Fire

Sherlock would have gone back to bed right after using the loo, but his head was pounding and John insisted on keeping all the medicine in the kitchen cabinet rather than in the bathroom, even though the one in the bathroom was called a _medicine cabinet_ , for God's sake. He stepped out into the hallway and immediately smelled smoke from the fireplace, though it was also chilly in the hall. It had been warm in his bedroom—he'd stayed in bed for as long as he was physically able for precisely that reason, that and because when he opened his eyes the sunlight tried to stab him. If it was warm in the bedroom then the heat must be working, so why was it so cold in the hall? As he walked toward the kitchen he caught the odor of some lemon-scented cleaning product beneath the scent of the fire, and maybe he was still asleep and dreaming. Did his sense of smell usually work in his dreams? Or maybe he was awake but having a stroke—that could cause strange smells, unless that was just a myth. Did drinking too much cause strokes? He should Google it, or even better, ask John.

Oh, God, John. Last night. At the party. He'd wanted to talk to John. Had he talked to John? He remembered going into his own bedroom and talking, but not what John had said. Had John even been there? His memory of the entire evening was vague; could he have been talking to himself in the bedroom? Giving himself a pep talk in preparation for approaching John? But then he hadn't actually approached John, had he? He had no recollection of the party even ending, but clearly it had—no one was here right now, except John, and he lived here. As Sherlock walked into the kitchen he could see him in the sitting room, in his chair in front of the fireplace, dressed in his thickest jumper, no doubt to ward off the chill because one of the windows was open.

Sherlock stopped in the kitchen doorway and squinted, because it was very bright in the sitting room, what with the daylight streaming through the open window. "Why on earth is the window open? It's freezing out." It wasn't freezing out—the air outside was probably 5 or 6 degrees—but 5 or 6 degrees felt freezing when you had the window wide open.

"Oh, I could probably close it now." John folded his morning newspaper and set it on the table next to his chair. "I think the smell's gone."

"What smell is gone?" The smoke and the lemon cleaner were still competing in his nostrils, both stronger than they had been in the hall. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, of course, and a spray bottle of cleaning solution sat on the desk.

John got up and closed and locked the window and then turned to face Sherlock. "Someone made quite a mess on the rug last night, and it was a bit rank still this morning." He nodded at a large dark spot on the rug near Sherlock's chair. "I don't think it will stain, but maybe next year lay off the wassail, hmm?"

"What—I...." Sherlock trailed off, knowing he couldn't very well deny anything if he couldn't recall most of the evening. "I didn't spill something, did I?"

John shook his head and crossed back to sit in his chair again. "It's all right. I've cleaned up worse. But to pay me back you get Rosie the next ten times she overflows her nappy." 

Sherlock wiped a hand across his mouth. His breath now tasted even worse than it had when he'd woken up, and his head throbbed harder. The bottle of aspirin was behind him in the kitchen, but even more urgently than that he needed to find out what else he had done last night. He took a hesitant step into the sitting room. "What else did I do last night?"

John laughed. "Let's see. You were a pretty good host, for the most part, up until the end when you tried to shoo all the guests out before they were ready and then passed out on the sofa."

Sherlock sighed. At least he hadn't said anything he might regret to John. Not that he expected to regret what he eventually planned to say, but saying it while pissed was probably not the best way to go about it. He brought both hands up to his temples and rubbed. "What was in that wassail?"

"You made it."

"Don't blame the victim, John." He squeezed his eyes shut and turned around to go back into the kitchen. "Are you sure nothing else happened?" he asked, without looking over his shoulder, hoping the voice coming out of his mouth sounded more casual than the voice panicking in his head.

"Well, you threw up on the rug and then wouldn't let me help you to bed."

Sherlock exhaled. At least he'd retained enough sense not to let John put him to bed. He did want John to be in his bedroom, just not under those conditions. 

At least John didn't seem too put off by last night's catastrophe. In fact, he seemed to find it somewhat amusing. Sherlock didn't think it was funny at all, but then, his thoughts were a bit of a mess at the moment. Aspirin. He needed aspirin and a big glass of water, and maybe once the aspirin started to work he would eat some toast. And then he needed to figure out another way to talk to John, maybe under circumstances involving a lot less alcohol.


	14. Naughty or Nice

Rosie liked spending time with Gram and Grandad, but sometimes staying at their house could get a little bit boring. She thought she'd be able to play in the snow, but when she got there she discovered it had all melted already, even though at home there were still icy, black-stained drifts piled at the edges of the streets. 

Grandad was watching a boring program about history on the telly, so Rosie found a pencil and some paper and went into the kitchen to sit by Gram, who was doing the washing up from lunch. 

"What are you doing?" Gram dried her hands and sat down at the table next to her. 

"At school we made holiday wish lists for our families," Rosie told her. "So now I'm making a list of who's naughty and who's nice." 

"In our family?" 

"Yes. Daddy and Sherlock are naughty because they're away on their anniversary trip." 

Gram made a surprised look at that, which was silly of her, because of course she already knew where Daddy and Sherlock were. That was why Rosie was staying here for the weekend. "They left and went away without me. That's naughty." 

Gram laughed. "Oh, but you're enjoying your time here, aren't you, sweetie?" 

"Mm-hmm. You and Grandad can go on the nice list." She wrote their names down. "Uncle Mycroft doesn't get to, though. I heard him tell Sherlock that he'd rather tear the rest of his hair out than have to watch me for a weekend." She frowned. "And Mrs. Hudson is nice, usually, but I don't think she wanted to watch me, either." She chewed on the end of her pencil. "Maybe it's just because she's too old." 

"Oh, I don't think Mrs. Hudson is very much older than me. It's just easier for me and Grandad to take care of you because there's two of us. So I can make Grandad do all the cooking while I hang out with you." She leaned sideways in her chair to give Rosie a hug. "And of course we wanted you to stay with us because we don't get to see you enough, Rosie." 

She let Gram finish hugging her, then went back to the list. "Your house is on the naughty list, though." 

"Our house?" 

"Yep. I brought my snow boots and everything, and all the snow is gone." 

Gram laughed again. "Well, I can't do too much about the snow, but maybe later we can go ice skating. There's a little rink in town where Sherlock learned to skate when he was about your age. How does that sound?" 

"Sure!" Rosie grinned and pushed her naughty and nice list away. Maybe staying at Gram and Grandad's house wasn't boring after all.


	15. Seasonal Illness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm behind again so here's another 221B. Which sounded slightly better before I remembered it had to end with a "b" word.

Rosie peered through the window in the hospital room's door. She couldn't see Dad, but she could see Sherlock asleep in a chair. He'd doubtless regret the awkward position later, but at least he was getting some rest. He was still getting over a bout of flu.

Rosie knocked softly, then pushed open the door.

Dad smiled when he saw her. He was sitting up in bed, reading glasses perched on his nose above a thin oxygen tube. Pneumonia. He had an IV running into his right arm, but he looked better than he had Tuesday, when they'd chatted online. Thank God Sherlock finally convinced him to see his doctor. 

She stepped into the room and shut the door again. Dad closed his book and set it on the table by the bed. "You really doing okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, much better." He kept his voice low; Sherlock didn't stir. "It's already easier to breathe, and they're giving me some new anti-virals that should clear it up in a few days."

"How's—?" She nodded toward Sherlock.

Dad rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you can imagine."

"You tell him I was coming?"

"Nope."

"Okay, well, wish me luck." She reached out to shake Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on, wake up. I'm taking you home. Tonight you can sleep in your own bed."


	16. Stuck at Home

It had stopped snowing hours ago, but the city continued to be at a standstill. Trains were delayed or suspended and there were only a few cars crawling down the streets outside the flat, as if a couple of inches of slush on the road were an insurmountable obstruction. Sherlock had seen flocks of over-dressed children headed to the park, but John had made it clear that Rosie was too young to play outside; apparently first she needed to be able to walk and understand English well enough to not eat the snow. Sherlock would've argued more about that—how much snow could she possibly eat if they were both there to supervise her?—but he had to agree that the fact that she had no snowsuit made taking her outside unwise. John seemed perfectly content to sit indoors with her until the weather turned, but Sherlock couldn't stand it. 

He paced through the kitchen and sitting room, wishing he'd thought to stock up on non-hazardous chemistry supplies when he'd seen the weather forecast. He had some rotting livers in his new fridge-freezer in the basement, but he wasn't allowed to work with those when Rosie was around.

"Mrs. Hudson is baking," John said. "You know she'll bring up treats for us this afternoon. Why don't you play us some Christmas music until then?"

Tempting. John and Rosie both enjoyed listening to him play, and he liked seeing their enraptured looks even more than he liked hearing the sound of his own violin. But. "I can't spend all day playing. My fingers will be bloody stumps. I need to go out."

"No, you don't. And if you're looking for cigarettes, all the local shops are probably closed. There's an ice warning until noon, you know."

Sherlock exhaled in frustration and pulled his dressing gown close in preparation to flop backwards onto the sofa.

"Stop. Don't."

Sherlock paused his anticipated flop and looked at John. He was sitting in his armchair with Rosie playing happily at his feet, well away from the danger of the fireplace but close enough to feel its warmth. "Come over here and sit with us for a while."

"Why? Is it more exciting over there?"

"Every moment doesn't have to be exciting to be enjoyable. Come sit. Right here." He motioned to the floor next to his chair, next to Rosie. "Like we did the other night. That was nice, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but it's ten in the morning and Rosie wasn't sitting there then."

"Doesn't matter. You'll enjoy it now, too. Come here." He curled his fingers, beckoning, and Sherlock found himself obeying. 

He sat on the floor between Rosie and the fire. "I used to hate being stuck inside with my family as a child." 

John's hand brushed across his shoulder before diverting to pick up a block that Rosie had thrown. "Well, your family's different now, isn't it? Just sit and be stuck here with us for a little while." 

Sherlock blinked at the crackling fire. Family. He'd said it himself about John, to Mycroft, though not in such a welcoming context, of course. His family. He leaned back against John's chair. "I guess if I have to be stuck inside with someone, I'm glad it's you," he said. He thought there was a small chance that John would laugh at that sentiment. He hadn't laughed the other night, when they'd sat together, touching, by the fire, but now it was broad daylight with no whisky in sight, which might make a difference. But John didn't laugh, and Sherlock let himself relax. He supposed he could spend a day inside with family, if that family meant John and Rosie. And maybe Mrs. Hudson, if she brought biscuits.

Plus, if other people all over the city were stuck at home with their families, he was bound to have some murders to solve later in the week.


	17. Scarf and Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked these prompts so I guess I have no one to blame but myself.

Rosie opened the door to the flat to let Olivia in. Mia was already there, upstairs in Rosie's room. They were supposed to be studying, but that probably wouldn't happen for a while yet. Anyway, first they needed snacks. 

Olivia followed her into the kitchen. "No parents home, right? So we can talk about whatever we want?"

"Yeah, my dad's still at work and Sherlock just left."

"I know. I saw him getting into a cab. Wearing that coat of his. And that scarf, the blue one he's always got on when he's on the news. So pretty." Olivia sighed.

"Why are you sighing over Sherlock's clothes?" Rosie pulled a half-full packet of biscuits off the shelf and started looking for three clean glasses for milk.

"It's not about his clothes, Rosie. They just...accentuate." Olivia smiled as if proud to have used such a big vocabulary word.

Rosie rolled her eyes and made a vomiting noise. "Please don't lust after Sherlock in front of me."

"Sorry, but honestly, Rosie. That scarf wrapped around his neck. Mm-hmm." Olivia drew out the syllables. 

Rosie shuddered. "What is wrong with you? Get the milk out for me. That's basically my stepfather you're talking about."

"Yeah, well I can't help it if you've got a hot stepfather." Olivia kept talking while she opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of milk, not even blinking at the bottom drawer that had been sealed shut with duct tape and a little skull-and-crossbones sticker. She'd known Rosie and her family for a long time, which is why it made even less sense for her to be _looking_ at Sherlock. She knew what he was like.

Rosie was pouring the milk when Mia appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "What is taking you two so long? I'm starving to death upstairs."

"Do you like chocolate or—" Rosie began but Olivia interrupted.

"We're chatting about how Rosie's not-really-stepdad-cause-he's-not-married-to-her-dad is super-hot and also way younger than her dad." Olivia tossed her hair over her shoulder and smirked at Rosie. "Good job, Doctor Watson."

"Oh my God. First of all, stop. Second of all, they're only five years apart. My dad just looks like an old man."

"No, he doesn't!" Mia said. "Your dad is adorable—way cuter than Sherlock. He's all small and compact but still muscular. Sherlock's too tall and gangly."

"Gangly?" Olivia said. "Who even uses that word? Gangly." She shook her head. "You have no taste in men."

"I have no taste? You're the one who likes weird-looking guys like Sherlock."

"Both of you, stop, now," Rosie told them. "You're being disgusting." 

They both ignored her. "He's not weird-looking," Olivia said. "He's a super-hot genius detective with great hair and excellent taste in clothes. Too bad he's gay."

"Holy shit, shut up!" Rosie shouted. "Sherlock being gay is the least of your concerns, trust me." 

"Wow, what's her problem?" Olivia said to Mia.

"She's probably upset because you think her dad's old and ugly but she looks a lot like him," Mia said.

"I look like my mum, and I need different friends." Rosie grabbed the packet of biscuits and one of the glasses of milk. "Now I'm going upstairs with these biscuits and if you two don't shut up about my family then I'm not going to help you study and you're both going to fail maths and science."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have to admit I'm with Mia on this one. Sorry, Sherlock.)


	18. Favorite Tradition

Sherlock came down from putting Rosie to bed to find John had filled the sitting room with a lifetime supply of wrapping paper and bows. He frowned at the stack of new baby toys John was presumably planning to wrap. "I never wrap gifts this early. We're still a week away from Christmas."

John pushed his armchair out of the way and then sat down on the floor in the midst of the pile of gifts. "When was the last time you gave someone a Christmas present?"

"Last year I murdered a man for you and Mary."

John's shoulders slumped and Sherlock wondered if it was the murder or Mary he shouldn't have mentioned, but after a moment John shook his head, lips twisted into a reluctant smile. "When was the last time you wrapped a Christmas present for someone?"

"Okay, yes, that's been a while." Sherlock detoured into the kitchen to get the whisky and two glasses. "But we could wait until Rosie goes to bed on Christmas Eve if you weren't so set on going to church." 

John reached for a roll of paper and started to unfurl it on the floor in front of him. "I like to get everything wrapped ahead of time. That way I can see what else I need to buy for people and still have time to get it."

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and handed John his glass. "I somehow think you have enough gifts already this year."

John scratched his head, surveying the piles he'd bought. "Yeah. It's a lot, I know. But I want Rosie to have that stack of shiny boxes under the tree, you know? And Mary definitely would've spoiled her with gifts if she were here."

"True." Sherlock took a sip of his whisky, then nudged his own chair back with his foot. "All right. Let's get started then."

They had ribbon and scissors and tape and rolls and rolls of gift wrap. They debated whether to use up each roll in turn so the packages would match, or if a variety of designs beneath the tree would be more festive. Sherlock took over the application of ribbon and bows, and they argued over who had better handwriting for the tags, even though Rosie had years to go before she could read them.

The evening was much more enjoyable than Sherlock had anticipated, though he realized in retrospect that he should not have been surprised. A fire; a single, savored drink; John beside him—what more could he want? 

What more did he want? He wasn't even sure he had an answer to that question. He was enjoying the small intimacies he and John had shared over the last few weeks: the private smiles, the drinks by the fire, the hands that lingered longer than they needed to. He did want more, yes, and he'd thought that meant he needed to make some sort of grand confession about his desires, but maybe that wasn't necessary. Maybe their relationship would continue to progress on its own. Maybe one day he and John would both lean forward into an embrace that would turn into a kiss. The thought made Sherlock's cheeks heat, which was ridiculous, because he'd certainly kissed people before without blushing at the very thought. Good thing John was such an unobservant man, his attention completely absorbed in the brightly colored wood and metal xylophone he was attempting to wrap. Sherlock smiled and reached out to help him with the task.


	19. Father Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made the prompt "Father Christmas" because I thought it sounded more British and then I decided to use "Santa" throughout most of this chapter. Oh, well.

"Come on, Rosie. I thought you wanted to see Father Christmas this year?" John gave her a gentle push from behind, not nearly hard enough to make an almost-three-year-old actually move if she didn't want to. He didn't fancy being the kind of father who would force his kid to sit on Santa's lap, but they'd booked an appointment for this visit and then still had to wait in a queue for Rosie's turn. He was tired from shopping all morning and his back ached because Rosie kept wanting to be held even though she was getting too big for that. She only weighed two stone, which didn't sound like much until he spent thirty minutes picking her up and putting her down while they waited for the kids in front of them to finish their visits with Santa. 

"Don't wanna anymore," she said, but she didn't sound afraid, not like last year, when they'd walked by the display at Santa's grotto and she'd burst into tears. Now she just sounded stubborn and cranky, which was about normal for her this time of the afternoon, ever since she'd given up taking naps a few months ago.

"You can tell him what you want for Christmas. Don't you want to do that?"

"I want toys," she announced.

Sherlock, who'd been ignoring John and Rosie in favor of his phone while they waited, now pointed the phone at Santa's chair. "Gram wants a photo of you on his lap, Rosie."

"No pictures, sir!" One of Santa's elves appeared to be even more tired and cranky than Rosie. "We offer a variety of photo packages if you'd like something to remember your child's visit."

Sherlock scowled at the elf and dropped the phone into his coat pocket. He held out his hand to Rosie. "Come on. I'll go with you." 

Amazingly, Rosie took his hand and followed Sherlock up the three steps coated in fake snow to reach Father Christmas. But when Sherlock tried to turn around and step away, she wouldn't let go of his hand.

Santa gave his trademark chuckle and said, "Daddy is welcome to stay, but he's too big for my lap, I'm afraid."

Rosie looked up at him—John couldn't see her face, so he hoped her expression was one of wonder rather than fear. A moment later she let go of Sherlock's hand and turned around to beckon at John. "Daddy, you can come here with us, too!"

"Oh, okay. Both Daddies," Santa said, and John didn't even hesitate to climb the steps and join Rosie and Sherlock. Anything to get this over with. He hadn't had anything for lunch except for a few soggy chips that Rosie and Sherlock had rejected and he just wanted to go home.

Rosie climbed on to Santa's lap and began to recite a list of things she wanted under the tree; half of them seemed to be mythical creatures but John thought he could probably manage to find some of the others. Or maybe plush unicorns and dragons could stand in for the real things. 

When Rosie was done, Santa looked up at Sherlock, who was standing to one side of his chair, and asked him what he wanted for Christmas. John could almost see the words "a locked-room murder" forming on his lips, but then he shook his head. "Nothing for me this year, thank you."

Santa turned to John, who smiled and followed Sherlock's lead. "I have everything I need already." 

He put his arms out toward Rosie, but one of the elves intervened before he could lift her from Santa's lap. "Don't you want your photo for Gram?"

"Oh, sorry, yes. Thank you." John started to step away but Rosie squealed in protest.

"All of us! Gram wants a photo of all of us!"

John looked over the top of Santa's head to see Sherlock's reaction—he didn't look thrilled, but he didn't object, either. A true Christmas miracle. John sighed and turned to face the camera, leaning in with one arm draped over Santa's shoulders. Sherlock mirrored him on the other side, and one of the elves snapped a quick series of photos. 

Rosie's mood had improved enough after her visit that she didn't even complain when they all stepped around to look at the photo kiosk and argue over which shot was the best. They didn't buy just a photo for Gram; they bought her an ornament with the photo printed on it, plus one for themselves, plus a digital download in case they wanted more copies of the photo in the future. John thought maybe he would use it as their Christmas card this year.


	20. Icicles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 221B!

John was making lunch when Sherlock and Rosie burst into the flat, talking animatedly. He grinned and stepped out of the kitchen to greet them.

"And we'll have to record the icicle size, as well as angle of entry," Sherlock said. He was holding a large cardboard box. "Though I still think blunt force trauma from falling ice is more likely."

John wrinkled his brow.

"Daddy! We're seeing if it's possible to kill someone by stabbing them with an icicle!"

"Nope. No. No way." John tossed the potholder he had in his hand onto the desk and marched across the room. Yes, the cardboard box was full of various sized icicles. And he thought they'd gone to play in the snow.

Sherlock raised the box as if he could prevent John from taking it. "We aren't really going to stab anyone."

"Yeah, Daddy. We're gonna use 'listic gel."

"Ballistic, Rosie. Starts with a 'b'."

"Yeah, that stuff."

"Why does an eight-year-old girl need to know if it's possible to stab someone to death with an icicle?"

"Are you attempting to limit her because of her gender?"

"She's eight years old!"

Sherlock glanced at Rosie and sighed. "Curiosity has no age limit, John."

"Turn around and take those icicles back outside before I teach you both another use for the word 'ballistic'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Believe it or not, I had the lines with Rosie mispronouncing and Sherlock correcting the word "ballistic" before I even thought about what the final word would be.)


	21. Longest Night

It had been a while since John had suffered through a completely sleepless night. Not since he and Rosie had moved into 221B, at least. Even before that, when the flat was still being restored, he'd slept well, falling into bed each night exhausted from working at the surgery and caring for a baby and helping Sherlock with the reno in the evenings. The last time he'd lain awake all night had probably been shortly after Sherrinford, though of course there had been countless nights of insomnia in the weeks and months before that.

But tonight John couldn't sleep because Rosie was sick. Just a normal childhood illness: he'd likely brought home some cold germs from work. Stuffy nose, a cough, and during the day she'd had a slight fever, which had spiked a bit this evening. It took both him and Sherlock but they managed to get her to swallow a dose of infant's paracetamol syrup, which seemed to help. She still fussed for a while, and screamed up a storm when John tried to put her in her cot, and again when Sherlock tried, even though she normally loved it when he read one of her board books to her and put her to bed. Finally John tried lying on his bed with her face down on his chest. 

She only objected mildly to that position, so Sherlock tiptoed out of the room and a minute later John heard the soft sounds of the violin drifting up the stairwell. It worked. Soothed by Sherlock's lullabies, Rosie settled on top of John, small hands gripping the fabric of his jumper as if to hold him in place beneath her. He could feel it the very moment she went to sleep, muscles relaxing against him and tiny snores whistling through her stuffy nose. He knew she would be fine, but it almost physically pained him to see her in any sort of distress. Rather than try to get up and put her in the cot, he stayed where he was, fully dressed and stretched out on top of the bed's blankets. 

Eventually the violin serenade ended. John lay still, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo overlaid with the sour scent of sweat and illness coming from Rosie. He listened to the sounds of Sherlock moving about in the rooms below them, until even those sounds ceased. He wondered if Sherlock would fall asleep quickly, or if he, too, would lie awake tonight, worrying about Rosie.

John closed his eyes, still not close to sleep, letting his mind wander to Sherlock and how surprisingly good he was with Rosie. He kept the parts of the flat that she frequented clear of any hazards, and just as importantly he never seemed to grow bored or frustrated with her. Sometimes John himself did, though he tried his best to keep those negative emotions under control. And of course there were moments like this, where even though he was trapped and uncomfortable beneath her, his desire for her to be happy meant he didn't even consider moving. A parent's instinct, and he was pleasantly surprised to discover it was one that Sherlock shared. 

He never would have expected that, though over the last few weeks, Sherlock had been surprising him in other ways as well. He'd been acting more...romantic wasn't quite the right word, but it didn't seem to be the wrong word, either. There'd been small touches, smiles and glances that John wasn't sure how to interpret, coming from a man who had just a few months ago reaffirmed his lack of interest in any sort of romantic entanglement. He had let John play with his hair. He'd sat on the floor next to John's bare feet and leaned into the touch as John ran his fingers through his curls. John wasn't even sure why he'd done it. He didn't have any sort of hair fetish, and Sherlock's hair didn't feel any different from anyone else's, but he'd looked down at Sherlock's head and suddenly wanted to touch it. And he had, and Sherlock had let him. 

What were they doing? Was it going to go further, or were occasional tender caresses when they were alone and unobserved all he should expect? He didn't know what Sherlock wanted—hell, he didn't even know what he wanted. After Mary, he'd thought maybe he was better off alone. His whole life had seemed such an irredeemable mess, and what was the point, since it was obvious that the only sort of person he could really love was the sort of person who harbored darkness and courted danger?

But part of the reason he'd moved back into Baker Street was because he knew that he and Sherlock needed each other. They were already in a relationship, and always had been, even if it had never included sex. And maybe it never would. John thought he might be okay with that. But if Sherlock wanted the timid physical interactions they'd begun to have to progress, then maybe.... John needed to talk to him, he knew, but he'd never been very good at talking about important things. Maybe he could just let it be for now. He was still grieving and exhausted from having an almost-toddler and unsure of what would happen if he approached Sherlock and Sherlock said no.

He raised his head enough to glance at the clock by the bedside. Well after midnight, but not yet close to dawn. It was the longest night of the year. Of course it was. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and shifted Rosie slightly atop him. She wriggled for a moment and then stilled. She definitely felt cooler now than she had a few hours ago. Maybe by morning the fever would be gone. He stroked both hands down the length of her fleece sleepsuit and then settled his hands on his own hips for a moment, still thinking about Sherlock more than Rosie. After a while he brought a hand up to rest on her back again, to keep her in place should he happen to somehow fall asleep in the hours remaining before the sun rose.


	22. Under the Tree

John thought maybe a small table-top tree would be easiest for Rosie's first Christmas, but Sherlock insisted on a real, full-size one. At least they didn't have to tramp out into the wilderness somewhere and cut it down themselves—John would've vetoed that, especially with Rosie still getting over a cold. But no, Sherlock had the tree delivered while John was at work and they decorated it together after Rosie was in bed. Another experience John never would have expected: Sherlock Holmes decorating a Christmas tree, with hardly a complaint even though he broke out in hives every time the branches touched his bare skin.

They put the tree near the window, so the lights would be visible from the street below, and because it was easy to erect a baby gate around it in that position. The whole flat was full of gates, by now. Sometimes John felt like he was navigating an obstacle course simply walking from one room to the next, though he was fairly certain that Sherlock's legs were so long that he barely even noticed the gates were there. 

Rosie saw the tree when she got up the next morning, and immediately lost interest in anything else, including eating breakfast or letting John take her back upstairs to her room to get dressed. "Da!" she exclaimed repeatedly, pointing at the tree, which, disappointingly, lent credence to Sherlock's theory that "da" didn't mean "Daddy" but "that" and referred to anything she saw and liked. 

"Tree. That's a Christmas tree," John told her, and she wriggled out of his arms so she could crawl across the room toward it. 

When she reached the gate she pulled herself up and tried to reach over the top to grab the tree, though she was still a good two feet away from it. She strained toward the tree for a few minutes, traveling along the length of the gate as if approaching from a different angle might allow her to reach it. Each time she failed to achieve her goal she voiced her displeasure a little bit louder.

After Rosie's sixth or seventh scream, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing to the poor child?" He watched as Rosie took two steps sideways while holding onto the gate and then plopped down on all fours to crawl over to him. 

"Still not walking, I see." Sherlock reached down to lift her into his arms and she shouted "Da!" at him and flailed her whole body toward the tree. He obligingly carried her back toward it. "You'll need to hurry to meet your Christmas deadline, little Rose."

"I told you she's not likely to follow your schedule," John said, and returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up the breakfast Rosie had refused to eat. 

When he glanced out into the sitting room a few moments later, he saw that the gate around the tree had been unhooked and opened. Sherlock sat cross-legged next to the tree, while Rosie was lying on her back on the floor beside him, gazing up through the branches, presumably entranced by the ornaments and lights.

"What—how did—" No, it was clear what had happened. "Why would you open the gate, Sherlock? It's supposed to keep her out."

"Daddy's no fun, is he, Rosie?" Sherlock bent down so his face was close to hers when he spoke, then looked up at John and shrugged. "She would've either shaken the gate until it fell or figured out how to climb over it if I hadn't accommodated her."

"Well, close it up again before she knocks the whole tree over or gets a needle in her eye and we have to spend the morning at A&E."

Sherlock sighed but did as John asked, whispering loudly as he reached for Rosie, "Remember, I'm the fun one who lets you have your way." He slid one hand beneath her head and put the other hand on her chest so he could gently drag her from beneath the tree. She wailed in protest, then reached up to grab a bough and her wail turned into a scream of pain. 

John let the sippy cup he was holding clatter to the floor as he skidded out of the kitchen, socks slipping on the hard floor. He caught himself on the back of his armchair and watched as Sherlock uncurled the fingers of Rosie's hand and plucked a single pine needle from the flesh of her palm. 

"You're all right!" Sherlock's voice was falsely light as he attempted to console Rosie. Her shrieking down-shifted into normal crying range and John felt his own heart try to slow itself to something resembling a sustainable rate. Thank God for Sherlock for comforting her so quickly, although it was entirely his fault in the first place. 

Sherlock stood up with Rosie pouting in his arms. She glared at the tree and then turned away from it, burying her head against Sherlock's shoulder. He shifted her weight to one arm so he could use his free hand to examine her injury. "There's a very small wound," he said, and kissed her palm and then the top of her head. "The good news is, she doesn't appear to have inherited my pine allergy."

John laughed in spite of himself and shook his head. "All right, but that gate is staying up from now on, and next year we're getting a fake tree."


	23. Family Visit: Did You Bring Your Gun?

John wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting on this Christmas visit to Sherlock's parents, but it sure wasn't this.

Last year, for Rosie's first Christmas, he and Sherlock had stayed in London and had a fairly low-key day, at least up until the kiss. This year they'd decided to accept the Holmes's offer to put them up for a few days over the holidays. Well, John had decided to accept it and Sherlock had reluctantly acquiesced.

The drive out hadn't been too bad—lots of traffic, but the weather was clear and Rosie had slept most of the trip. But they hadn't even been here five minutes before things got weird. It started with Sherlock—John stepped out of the guest room after changing Rosie and Sherlock ambushed him with a kiss. Not that he didn't appreciate kissing Sherlock, but it would've been nice to first wash his hands after the nappy change. 

When Sherlock finally released him, John could see Mrs. Holmes was beaming at them, which at least answered the question about whether she and Mr. Holmes knew they were together. The kissing still seemed a little weird, though, even if it had been prompted by the mistletoe hanging in the hallway. Sherlock usually wasn't one for public displays of affection, and most of the people John had been with in the past had tended to be less amorous when their parents were watching, not more so. Oh well, John didn't mind. He'd happily spend the next few days kissing every time they passed by a sprig of mistletoe if that was what Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock took all of their luggage down the hall and then came back and dropped onto one of the sofas as if he meant to stay there for a while. Rosie had settled on Mr. Holmes's lap with a stack of picture books, which meant that John didn't have to watch her right now. He thought he might excuse himself and go for a kip in one of the bedrooms—driving for any long distance always made him want to sleep. But before he got the chance, Mrs. Holmes called his name.

"John? Would you mind helping me in the kitchen for a bit? I'd ask Sherlock but he's not allowed near anything any of us plan to consume."

"That's fine," Sherlock said, without looking up from his phone. "I'm not planning to drug anyone, but I'm not planning to help you cook, either."

"I'd be happy to help," John said. He didn't absolutely need to nap right now. Neither he nor Sherlock cooked regularly at home, but he did it more frequently than Sherlock, and he'd certainly poisoned and drugged fewer people.

He followed Mrs. Holmes through the house to the kitchen. The last time he'd been here—two years ago now—he hadn't paid much attention to the layout, what with worrying about what he was going to say to Mary and then worrying about whether Sherlock and Wiggins had just killed her and the baby and then getting caught up in Sherlock's ill-fated plan to confront Magnussen. But it was a pretty big house, and the kitchen was on the opposite side of it from the sitting room where everyone else was gathered. Now with the doors closed in between them he couldn't even hear the others talking.

He washed his hands while Mrs. Holmes pulled an apron off a peg by the door and draped it over her head. She reached behind herself to tie it in place and said, "So. John. Shall I assume you didn't bring your gun this year?"

John couldn't stop his eyes from widening in astonishment, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Of course she knew he'd provided the gun that had allowed her son to commit murder—she was a Holmes after all. She'd probably deduced it. Or Mycroft told her. He swallowed and tried to smile at her. "Nope. No guns around Rosie. It's a pretty firm rule."

"Mm-hmm. Well. Good," she said, and drew a knife from the block next to the hob. John started to step away from her and then stopped himself. She was probably not going to stab him. And he could definitely disarm her if she tried.

Rather than stabbing him, Mrs. Holmes gestured with the knife toward a pile of potatoes. "If you don't mind starting to peel for me?"

John blinked and then nodded, picking up the peeler. 

She used the knife to begin chopping celery. "Rosie's grown so much since I saw her last! She's beautiful, John. She looks a bit like Mary and a bit like you, doesn't she?"

"Mm, yeah, I guess so." He only saw Rosie when he looked at her, but he'd heard others offer similar opinions.

"And you're looking good yourself," Mrs. Holmes continued. "I'm glad you changed your hair back again. I never liked it combed back off your face."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just forced a smile and began to peel. A bit rude of her, really, but then she was Sherlock's mother, and women of a certain age did tend to say what they thought. Mrs. Hudson certainly did the same. 

"And Sherlock." She sighed. He glanced over to see her shoulders slump and then she raised a hand to her face. Her back was to him, but he swore she was wiping her eyes. "Sherlock...I've never seen him so happy, John. Never, in forty-two years of motherhood."

"Oh." John shuffled sideways a bit closer to her. This was very awkward, but he could also feel himself puffing up with pride. He had done that—he had made Sherlock happier than he ever had been before. Well, maybe Rosie helped with it a little, too.

Mrs. Holmes sniffled and wiped at her eyes again. John wondered if he should pat her on the shoulder or something, but he didn't think they were quite that close yet. He kept peeling instead. 

"John, there are tissues, there by the window. Could you hand me one?"

"Oh, of course." He put down the peeler and potato he was holding and wiped his hand down the leg of his trousers before pulling a tissue from the box. 

When he reached out to give it to her, she turned to face him. Her eyes were dry. "I've never seen him happier, John. But let me tell you, if he were to become unhappy again, and it was because of you—" She poked a finger toward his chest. "I would do my best to make sure that you became even unhappier, very quickly. Do you understand?" She looked up at him and the couple of inches he had on her in height suddenly did not seem to be nearly enough.

"Y—yes. Um. Don't worry. I intend to keep Sherlock as happy as I can for as long as I can."

"Good." She took the tissue he had offered and blew her nose, then turned back to the chopping board. "I know on the whole you've tended to be a positive influence on him, even before—" She fluttered her fingers between John and the door that led to the room where Sherlock lounged. "But I also know.... Just be good to him, all right?"

"I will do my best. I promise," he said.

"Good. Good." She stuffed the tissue into the pocket of her apron and tipped the board full of chopped celery into a large bowl. "Now, I was planning to mash those potatoes, and I usually add a lot of garlic to them, but will Rosie eat that, or do you think should I leave some plain?"


	24. Mittens or Gloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick 221B as I attempt to get ahead before tomorrow.

Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson had been teaching Rosie to knit, but he hadn't realized how far the lessons had progressed. She'd made herself a scarf earlier this winter, but he hadn't expected hand-knitted Christmas gifts as well.

Socks for John, though given their size he might have to borrow Sherlock's shoes to fit them. And for Sherlock, mittens. Bright red, for Christmas, of course. "Because you always have cold hands and mittens are warmer than gloves." The pride on her face was unmistakable as he pulled them from their gift wrap. 

"Ah, yes." He ran his thumbs over the yarn, an inexpensive acrylic blend borrowed from Mrs. Hudson's stash. He knew the tensile strengths of dozens of fibers but he did not know how to knit. "You must've spent a long time making these."

"Yes, but I got done in time for you to wear them to church tonight!"

Sherlock smiled, keeping his sigh internal. Why not? He could wear them during the mass; it would give him something new to stare at and people would think he was praying. 

He pulled the mittens onto his hands. They fit well enough, though the color was rather alarming and he didn't fancy the scratch of the yarn on his skin. He clapped his hands together. "Thank you, Rosie. These are the best."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *he actually told her the mittens are "perfect" but since they don't live in 221P I had to change it.


	25. It's Christmas; I Feel the Same

Sherlock survived going to church on Christmas Eve, the first time he'd been in many, many years. It was much less boring now that he had a baby to amuse him during the mass, and the upside was that everyone slept late the next morning, even Rosie. 

Molly and Lestrade stopped by in the early afternoon with gifts for Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson invited them to stay for dinner—she'd made enough food to feed a dozen people. Rosie got fussy as soon as she had eaten her fill, which gave Sherlock and John the perfect excuse to depart without having to help with the cleanup. 

It was too early to put her to bed for the night, and too late for a nap, so John strapped the baby carrier onto his back and Sherlock buckled her in and they went outside for a stroll. Rosie babbled in excitement the whole way, marveling at all the shopfronts and flats that had lights twinkling in their windows.

By the time they got back home Rosie had worn herself out; she nodded off before Sherlock even finished reading her bedtime story. He tucked her in and turned off her light, then tiptoed downstairs to the sitting room.

John was in his armchair, though he hadn't started a fire yet. The only illumination came from the lights on the tree. The bottle of expensive Scotch that Mycroft had sent for Christmas sat on the table next to him, along with two glasses, but he hadn't opened it yet.

Sherlock slowed his approach, trying to gauge John's mood. It was easy to grow maudlin at Christmas, and John had more reason than most to feel down. When the clues in John's posture failed to add up, Sherlock gave up and said simply, "Are you all right?"

John looked up, brow wrinkling as if surprised to see him there. He glanced from Sherlock to the tree and then back up at Sherlock. "Yeah," he said, and let out a laugh. "Yeah, I am. It's Christmas, and I'm.... I'm happy."

Sherlock stood still for a moment, analyzing John's response. Yes. Happy. That was the best word to use. "I feel the same," he replied, dragging his own chair out from the corner it had been shoved into to make room for the tree. "Do you plan to be up for a while yet? I'll light a fire if you do."

"Yes, please." John waved his hand at the stack of wood. "I'm not tired at all."

Sherlock moved the fireplace screen and began to lay the fire, aware that John was staring at him from behind as he knelt on the marble hearth. When the wood finally caught he leaned back, wanting to feel the warmth before he stood up.

"Come, sit," John said to him, and Sherlock wondered if he meant in his chair or if it was an invitation to sit by him on the floor again. 

Sherlock put his head down for a moment, then stopped thinking about it. "Yes," he said, and stood, turning toward John as he did. One long step put him in directly in front of John, and he bent down, putting his hands on the arms of his chair.

"What are you doing?" John asked, sounding both curious and intrigued.

"I have no idea," Sherlock said, and then leaned forward and kissed him.

John didn't respond or do anything to return the kiss, but he didn't flinch away, either, and Sherlock wasn't worried. It was a surprising development, after all. After a second or two, Sherlock pulled back, grinning, to see the same blinking, perplexed expression on John's face that he knew he occasionally wore himself. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

John nodded slowly. "I thought you didn't—"

"I usually don't." Sherlock reached back with his right foot and hooked it around the leg of his chair to drag it even closer to John's, then dropped back to sit in it. "Sometimes I do."

"I see." John was staring at him. "All right. Me, too." He nudged one of his feet in between Sherlock's; they were both wearing slippers Mrs. Hudson had given them that morning. 

"Good." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, feeling both immensely relieved and inexplicably nervous. "Pour us a drink?" He nodded at the bottle next to John.

"Okay." John did, then handed one of the glasses to Sherlock and raised his own. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and took a long sip of his Scotch. "It has indeed been a very merry Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should've only made 25 prompts so I could end here, but apparently there will be 6 more chapters yet to come! Apologies to the rest of you who are also trying to write them all!


	26. Cleaning Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was like my 5th attempt to write a 221B for this prompt. Only 5 prompts more to go!

Today's breakfast and lunch dishes were stacked next to the kitchen sink, and the sitting room was a disaster of wrapping paper, ribbon and boxes that no one had bothered to clean up yesterday. Earlier John had attempted to hold a contest to see who could pick up the most in the shortest amount of time, but neither Rosie nor Sherlock had been fooled into helping.

He sighed and started to fill the sink with water when an extended roar erupted from the next room. Not a shout, but an actual roar, like a lion, or...something. Sherlock, obviously, loud enough to rattle the dirty dishes. What the hell were he and Rosie doing in there?

John stepped out of the kitchen to find that they had pushed all of their new toys and gadgets to the side and were sitting facing each other in the middle of the room. Rosie was now clucking like a chicken.

"What are you—?"

"Animal noises, John. I'm winning."

"He did a Wookie! Do it again so Daddy can hear!"

John raised his hands. "No, that's all right. I heard it the first time." He shook his head and returned to the kitchen, this time pulling the pocket doors closed behind him. Maybe getting stuck doing all the post-holiday clean up himself wasn't so bad.


	27. "Thank God That's Over"

"So, how did it go?" Lestrade asked, after escorting the other officers out of the room so Sherlock could examine the body uninterrupted. 

Sherlock straightened up from where he'd crouched over the first blood stain. He'd been at the crime scene for less than a minute; he knew Lestrade thought he was good, but he couldn't really expect Sherlock to have solved the case this fast. "How did what go?"

"You know." Lestrade stepped closer to him and lowered his voice, though there was no one but the dead woman to overhear them. "You and John." He made a cryptic motion with his hands.

Sherlock frowned and bent his head over the blood stain again, though he'd already extracted as much information as he could from it. How did Lestrade know that anything had happened between him and John? It was nine o'clock in the morning on Boxing Day—he and John had kissed less than twelve hours ago. He doubted that John would have called or texted Lestrade about it, and Sherlock certainly hadn't said anything to anyone else at all. But what else could Lestrade be talking about? And what did that hand motion he had made mean? Whatever it was meant to represent, he and John had definitely not done it yet. He cleared his throat. "John's at home with Rosie," he said. 

Lestrade squatted down next to him. "But did you tell him how you feel about him?"

Sherlock squinted at him. Had his feelings really been so obvious that even Greg Lestrade had been able to detect them?

Lestrade stared at him for a moment. "You don't remember talking to me about it, do you?" He shook his head and stood up again. "How can you stay so lucid when you're strung out but be such a lightweight when it comes to drinking?"

"Would you like me to try to build up a higher tolerance for alcohol to replace my drug addiction?"

"No. But anyway, you told me you were definitely going to let him know how you felt by Christmas. So did you?"

"Oh." Sherlock did not remember saying that, but apparently he'd met his deadline anyway. "I kissed him last night."

"You kissed him?" Lestrade dropped down next to him again. "Then what happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We talked for a while, then it got late and he went to bed."

"That's it?"

"He kissed me before he went to bed."

"That's it?" Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "There may have been a bit of fondling, but as I am not fourteen years old I do not feel compelled to tell my friends all the intimate details of my love life." He clicked his magnifying glass shut and stood up.

Lestrade stood up as well, chuckling. "Sherlock Holmes with a love life. Who would've thought?"

Sherlock tried to keep his face blank in response, but he must not have done a very good job, because Lestrade stopped laughing and said, "Hey, I don't mean to tease. Do you want me to keep it quiet for now? So you can tell people yourself?"

"I really don't care what you say to whom, Geoff. When have I ever cared what other people thought?"

Lestrade crossed his arms and Sherlock relented. "John would probably appreciate it if you didn't go announcing it to everyone you know. Just give us a little time to get used to it ourselves first. Greg."

Lestrade smiled. "All right. Congratulations. I'm glad you finally got it sorted out between the two of you, even if you didn't exactly take my advice."

"Since I don't remember it I don't believe you actually offered me any advice." 

Lestrade laughed again. "Okay, I'll stop bothering you about your personal life. For now. But you have to solve this case for me."

"Thank God that's over," Sherlock muttered underneath his breath. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the rest of the murder scene. "Talk to the son-in-law. He's the one who set up the wifi login so he obviously knows who the murderer is. I've been here long enough. I'm going home."


	28. Toys

It was a simple, rather plain cloth doll, though Sherlock supposed it was a good choice given Rosie's age. It had her light hair and pale skin tone, though the eyes were large black dots that didn't resemble anyone at all.

Molly gave it to her on Christmas Day, apologizing all the while for not having had time to hand sew a stuffed bear for her as she had planned, and then panicking at the thought that perhaps John didn't want to raise his daughter with gender-stereotyped toys such as dolls. John assured her that it was fine, Lestrade handed Molly another glass of wine, and then Rosie started to chew on the doll's foot in lieu of saying "Thank you." 

Now, three days post-Christmas, Sherlock picked up the doll from the floor where she'd left it when John took her upstairs for a nappy change. The fabric of each limb was somewhat drool-stained already, but it seemed to be sturdily enough made that it would survive even a teething one-year-old's repeated attacks. Which was good, since Rosie had already shown a preference for the doll compared to most of the other toys she had received. She liked to drag it with her as she crawled around the flat—she was still refusing to take her first unaided steps, though Sherlock was certain that she was ready and would do so any day now.

He brushed off a few pieces of lint that had collected on the doll's torso and looked around for an appropriate place to put it. John was starting to grow cranky about what he referred to as the "Christmas mess" that still filled the sitting room. Maybe the doll could sit in Rosie's highchair in the kitchen for now. 

The doll. It needed a name, especially if it was going to be Rosie's favorite toy. Hmm. John and Mary had vetoed all of his choices of names for Rosie, but maybe he would be permitted to name a doll. There were so many possibilities—he would have to make a spreadsheet. As he reached out to place the doll in the highchair, his fingers brushed the tag that stuck out at the back of her waist. Perhaps she already had a name—that would save him some work, though it would also rob him of a bit of fun. He turned the doll over to read the tag.

That—that couldn't be right. He read it again, skimming through the additional words identifying the doll's country of origin and fabrics used in her construction. No, the first word on the tag was definitely meant to be her name. _Mary_. A common enough name to be a coincidence, but.... He shivered and then smiled. Mary. It did look like her, after all. And it was a name simple enough that Rosie should be able to say it relatively soon. He wasn't quite sure what John's reaction would be when he heard the name, though.

He put the doll into the chair and turned around. John and Rosie were done with the nappy change—he met them as they came into the sitting room. Rosie squirmed in John's arms until he set her down on the floor and she began to crawl around. Sherlock realized immediately what she was looking for. 

"Do you want your doll, Rosie? Where is she? Let's look for her, shall we?" He didn't think it was quite the right moment to reveal her newly-discovered name, so he fell back on the generic term they'd been using. "Doll, where are you? Doll?" He walked slowly back toward the kitchen, Rosie following him on her hands and knees.

He reached the doorway to the kitchen just as she got to John's chair. Rather than continuing to crawl she pulled herself up and then sidestepped along it, holding onto the cushion and then the arm of the chair as she moved. 

Sherlock picked up the doll from the highchair. "Doll!" he announced. "I found your doll!" He held it up for her to see.

"Daw!" Rosie exclaimed, then said it again. "Daw!" It was clearly enunciated and distinct from her usual "da," the meaning of which was still hotly debated. 

"Did she just say—?" John said, crossing the room to stand a few feet behind her.

"Yes, I think she did. Doll, Rosie. Here's your doll."

"Daw!" Rosie yelled again.

Sherlock couldn't tell if she was pleased with herself or annoyed that he was still holding it out of reach. He took a step toward her, and then stopped. She had let go of John's chair, but hadn't yet dropped down to her hands and knees. He crouched down, holding the doll out so it was only a meter or so away from her. "Come on, Rosie. You can do it," he said softly. 

She stretched out both hands toward him, and then took a step. And then another step. And then a third, and then she plopped down onto her bottom, shrieking in frustration. She immediately turned over so she could crawl the remaining distance to get the doll.

Sherlock let her take it from his grasp when she reached him, then gathered her and the doll up in his arms. He stood and crossed the room to meet John, who folded them both into an embrace. Rosie seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she had just said her first real word and taken her first steps in the space of thirty seconds. Sherlock stood still, enjoying the feel of John's arms wrapped around his chest as much as the weight of Rosie in his arms. 

"Daw!" screamed Rosie, and whacked Sherlock in the chin with it. It didn't hurt. But maybe the doll's real name could wait until Rosie learned to say a few more syllables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the origin story a bit to fit my needs, but this is based on this drawing by [itsacon10](https://itsacon10.tumblr.com/): [Rosie's doll Mary, made by Molly](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/post/164644146613/itsacon10-this-is-mary-rosies-rag-doll-made).


	29. Bad Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever made this list of prompts put too many weather prompts on it. :)

"Don't worry. He'll be home soon." Sherlock hoped if he reassured Rosie often enough, he'd start to believe it himself, but so far that hadn't worked out. 

Rosie sniffed and resettled herself on the wide windowsill, staring out into the twilight at the street below. It had been raining all day, but for the last few hours the temperature had hovered around the freezing point and the city outside had grown slick with ice. There'd been two crashes within sight of their flat already. The first had caused only minor damage, and both cars drove away afterward. The second had summoned two police cars and an ambulance. Rosie, who up until now had never seemed bothered by any of the more macabre criminal or medical details that she inevitably overheard, seemed deeply affected by the accident. Sherlock tried to keep her from watching from the window, but that upset her even more, so he watched with her, pointing out that injuries in a relatively low-speed crash were not likely to be fatal.

But it wasn't the two people who were taken away to hospital that she was worried about. "Daddy has to drive home. How is he going to do it if it's so icy out, Sherlock?"

He draped an arm around her thin shoulders and peered out into the gloom, wondering the same thing. "Mrs. Hudson's car has all the latest accident prevention and safety features, plus Daddy is a good driver. He knows how to be careful when it's icy." Though it might not matter how careful John was, if the other drivers around him went too fast and lost control. When John had borrowed the car this morning, to avoid having to walk from the tube to the surgery in the freezing rain, it had seemed a sensible idea, but now Sherlock wished he hadn't. He wished he hadn't gone to work at all, but John insisted that any patients who ventured out into this miserable late-December weather deserved to be treated by the full staff of doctors.

It was nearing five o'clock; John's shift had ended at four. He'd texted Sherlock to say he was leaving, but there'd been no word from him since. It was a struggle for Sherlock to resist the urge to text or call him, but he knew hearing the phone chime might cause John to take his eyes and attention from the road, and to miss the lorry that skidded into the lane in front of him, and emergency services would try their best but it would be too late, and then Sherlock would be raising Rosie alone, and.... 

He shook himself out of the thought. Of course he had seen John in much more dangerous situations—he had put him in more dangerous situations himself—but Rosie's fear was infectious. He stood up and clapped his hands together once. "Come on. Let's have some hot cocoa. We can make a cup for Daddy so it'll be ready when he gets home."

Rosie followed him into the kitchen and allowed herself to be distracted with chocolate and biscuits. Sherlock went through the motions of readying the snack for her, hoping the familiar routine would calm them both, but he didn't fully relax until he heard the door downstairs open, followed by the welcome sound of John's tread on the stairs.


	30. Auld Lang Syne/Resolutions

John was talking to her again.

It had been months since Mary had heard him say her name, and while she'd missed hearing his voice addressing her, the fact that he was doing it again now was a little worrying. She thought he'd moved on, that he'd adjusted, but no, here he was, months and months after she died, talking to her.

He was alone in the bathroom, clearly having just finished with a shower: the mirror was still fogged up, the hair slicked back from his face was wet, and he was wearing pyjama bottoms but no shirt. He looked good. 

Was she allowed to look at him like this still? Not that she had any control over when and where she saw him, but it felt strange, to be watching him without him knowing. She would've knocked before coming into the bathroom, even when they were still married. Were they still married? Of course not; she was dead. But she was still here, at least sometimes, and it was hard not to look when she suddenly popped into a room where he was standing half-naked. Especially now that he was talking to her again. 

"Mary." He leaned forward with his hands braced on the sink and said her name, exhaling heavily on the second syllable. She was standing behind him as he looked into the mirror, which would have been quite dramatic except it was still murky with steam and anyway she had no reflection.

"I'm here," she said, but he didn't respond. She knew he couldn't hear her. Back when she'd first died, he had talked to her all the time, but though he sometimes acted like he could hear her, his responses never matched what she actually said. She thought he'd been imagining what she might say, and it seemed to have given him some sort of emotional and psychological comfort, but it had had nothing to do with her ghost or spirit or whatever she was being there. Then he'd stopped doing it, he'd stopped talking to her at all, which had been both healthy for him and heartbreaking for her.

"Mary," he repeated, and looked down at his hands on the edge of the sink. "I can't believe I'm doing this. I haven't done this since...since you." He shook his head. "Flirting with Eurus doesn't count, I guess. Especially since it turns out that she was Sherlock's sister." He brought a hand up to rub at his brow. "Oh, God, that makes this even weirder, doesn't it?"

Mary felt herself starting to flicker away again. She didn't know what he was talking about; it was like trying to follow a program she'd only heard bits and pieces of and now she was losing the signal. 

"It's Sherlock," he murmured, and John and the room came back into sharp focus for her. "We're.... I don't really have a plan, but I figure I should start with this." He picked his left hand up from the sink and rested it on his hip; his pyjamas covered the skin there, but she knew what he was talking about.

"Yes, that's a good place to start," she said. "Explain everything to him."

He put a hand on his other hip as well, and lowered his head, letting out a small gasp of laughter. "I'm nervous. Haven't felt like this since...probably since I planned to propose to you, Mary." He brought his head up quickly, looking at his own clouded reflection in the mirror. "Not that I'm proposing to Sherlock." More nervous laughter. "It almost feels like that, though. Like it's a big deal, because it's Sherlock and he...." He trailed off, settling his hands on the basin again.

Mary wondered if she would disappear before he had a chance to finish thinking out loud to her. She tried to concentrate, hoping that would keep her there longer. 

"I don't really know what he wants," John said. "Or if he wants anything at all."

"He kissed you." Mary found herself stepping forward, as if she could put a hand on John to reassure him, and stopped before she could disappoint herself. 

He didn't react to her at all, of course. "I mean, he kissed me, and we've kissed again since, but it hasn't gone much farther than that." 

She wondered how long it had been since they'd first kissed. She'd seen it—on Christmas night she'd seen Sherlock work up his courage and John not object, then she'd faded out while they sat together and talked. She'd only been back once since then, in time to see Rosie take a few steps and then scream for a doll that she must have received for Christmas. 

"It's been almost a week," John said to the mirror. "I know that's not long, and he's had cases and I've had work and then there's Rosie, but.... I just want him to know. How I feel, how I've felt, how...everything. I want him to know everything. I don't want to screw it up like I did with you...like you and I did. Like Sherlock and I did before, when we never told each other anything."

Mary understood. Too many secrets, a lot of mistakes—of course he wanted to do better this time.

"I miss you, but...," he said. "I'm hoping this will be better."

She hoped it was, too. He deserved better, and so did Sherlock.

John laughed again, longer and freer this time. "God, Mary, I feel like I'm asking for your permission or your blessing or something." He shook his head. "I'm not. I'm just...letting you know, I guess. Letting myself know."

She was glad he wasn't asking permission, because she couldn't give it to him. She couldn't give him anything, not anymore. 

"Harry always said I was bi. She's never going to let me hear the end of it, when she finds out. I don't care, though. I don't care what most people think, just the ones who count. Rosie. Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson." He traced a clear line down the mirror with one finger. "I wish you could see this. You'd probably laugh and say you're not surprised, either."

He dropped a hand down to his hip again and Mary smiled. No, she wasn't surprised. She was happy for him, and probably a little more curious than she should be. What were he and Sherlock going to do together? Was she going to be there when they did it? Oh, that was more than a bit not good of her, wasn't it? 

She didn't want to keep watching them—they deserved their privacy as much as any couple—but she didn't know how to stop. Sometimes she was here and sometimes she wasn't. Should she close her eyes if she ended up in the bedroom with them at some indeterminate point in the future? Would that be good enough?

No. If she didn't want to keep spying on them like this then she should try to stop. Maybe, if she simply resolved not to come back, she wouldn't. She didn't know where else she would be, though. Nowhere, maybe. She certainly didn't expect to end up someplace better, not after the life she had led. 

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. John was still standing in front of her, oblivious. She didn't want to be gone entirely, didn't want to not exist. She wanted to see Rosie grow up. She just needed to figure out how to do that without invading everyone's privacy. Too bad she couldn't ask Sherlock for help—he'd figure out a plan. She laughed and felt herself beginning to fade, and didn't fight against it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't plan to write ghost!Mary again, but then I got to this chapter and didn't know what else to do. Hope those of you who don't like her didn't mind, and those who do like her enjoyed this. One more chapter to go!


	31. Last Night/New Year

Rosie was already upstairs asleep, and Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, waiting for John to finish up in the shower so he could have one himself. They hadn't discussed it, but he was sure that the plan for the evening was to sit around, drink a glass or two of wine, and watch the New Year's Eve fireworks on telly, like some sort of old married couple. Except presumably most old married couples had done more than kiss each other, whereas he and John hadn't even seen each other naked. At least not recently.

Sherlock heard John emerge from the bathroom and walk through the kitchen, but instead of continuing to go up to his bedroom, he stopped in the sitting room, looking at Sherlock.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, half curious and half bored.

John pursed his lips and then straightened up, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists. "Come with me," he said, and turned around and strode back through the kitchen, not waiting to see if Sherlock would follow. 

Sherlock rose from the sofa before he even realized what he was doing—that wouldn't do, following John's orders without a thought. Would it? He narrowed his eyes, watching John walk away from him. He probably wanted to complain about some mess Sherlock had left in the bathtub, though he didn't remember leaving any mess today, and John had bathed Rosie earlier without comment. Sherlock took a couple of steps into the kitchen, then paused again when he saw that John was headed not to the bathroom but to the end of the hall. "That's...my bedroom."

"I know. Don't worry. I just want to show you something."

"In my bedroom?"

"Well, Rosie is asleep in mine and the loo is really too small for two people. Just come here for a minute, would you?"

"Fine." Sherlock tightened his dressing gown and stalked through the kitchen and down the hall, ready to see whatever it was that John for some reason wanted to show him in his own bedroom.

Once they were both in the room, John flicked on the light next to the bed and then turned to face Sherlock.

"Well?" Sherlock tilted his head in expectation.

John tipped his chin up and then began to untie the knot on his own dressing gown. 

Sherlock swallowed and didn't let himself take a step backward, but he couldn't stop himself from saying, "What are you—"

"Just shut up for a minute and let me show you this, all right?"

Sherlock shut up, at a loss for what John might want to show him. By taking off his dressing gown while in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock did not actually object to John undressing in his bedroom, but he thought it would be more of a romantic process, at least the first time. 

John wore a plain white vest and flannel pyjama bottoms beneath the dressing gown: his normal nighttime attire, though often in the winter he slept in a heavier sweatshirt as well. Nothing unexpected to see so far. Sherlock flicked his gaze up to John's face and John gave him a very slight nod, then lifted the bottom of the vest up and pushed the waistband of his trousers down below his right hip.

Sherlock's glance landed first on John's stomach, taut and more muscled than it had been a few years ago, the last time he had seen him without—oh. A small tattoo, just above his hipbone. Inch-high black lettering—the initials "MW." Of course. 

"Mary Watson," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "Obviously."

Sherlock grinned at the word. "When did you get it?" The ink was still very dark, not faded at all, though the skin around it was smooth and pale, so it wasn't brand-new. "Over the summer?"

"A few days before Sherrinford," John said. He stroked his thumb over the tattoo. "I was worried it would get infected from that well water."

"Oh. Okay. Glad it didn't." Sherlock could understand John's desire to show him, now that they were slowly embarking on some sort of romantic relationship, though it was hardly something he needed to have worried about. John and Mary may have had their problems, but it made sense that John would want to have something permanent to remember her by. Sherlock had never thought of John as a likely candidate for a tattoo, but his time in the Army had doubtless accustomed him to the practice.

"I'm not done yet," John said. 

Sherlock frowned, and then John pulled his vest higher and pushed down his pyjamas on the left side of his body as well. He had—he had—he had two tattoos, a matching set. Mary's initials on his right hip, and on his left, letters in the same font and size, though more faded with time. SH.

Sherlock stared. He tried to remember the last time he had seen John pantsless, when they'd lived together before. Back when Sherlock had tended to open doors without knocking, back before he had jumped. There'd been no tattoo back then. "You got that... After I.... Before I came back."

John nodded. "While you were dead."

"So Mary saw it."

He nodded again. "Third date."

"I see." Sherlock took a few steps across the room so he could sit down on the bed. John let his vest drop, but didn't pull up his pyjama bottoms or retie the dressing gown. Sherlock looked at him, then stared at the periodic table on his wall for a moment, trying to figure out what it meant that John had had his initials tattooed on his hip after Sherlock had died, and later done the same thing in memory of his wife. "Why?"

"It would have been hard to hide it from her—"

"No, why'd you do it?"

John smiled. "I know what you meant. Why do you think I did it? So I would never forget someone I loved."

"Oh." Sherlock looked at the wall again, possibly for too long this time, because John came and sat next to him on the bed.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and stood up, pulling his own dressing gown open and quickly unbuttoning his shirt.

John bit at his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I'm showing you my scars," Sherlock explained. "Even the ones you don't know about. I don't have any tattoos." He let his shirt and dressing gown fall onto the bed behind him. His front was not of much interest: a bullet hole that John knew all about, an appendix scar that was not very impressive. He turned around slowly, letting John see the marks on his back from his time away.

When he was facing him again, John stood up and took off his own dressing gown and vest. He held his arms out toward Sherlock. "Come here?" 

Sherlock went to him. John's grip was tight, arms wrapped around his chest and fingers probing the old wounds along his back. Sherlock let him; the sensation was strange, as the skin on the largest of the scars retained almost no feeling at all. He liked the feeling of John's chest against his, though, cool skin pressed against cool skin.

After a few moments, John loosened the embrace and met Sherlock's eyes. "So are we ready to keep going now? No more secrets we have from each other?"

Sherlock thought about it for a second. "I filled up my new fridge-freezer in the basement," he confessed. "There are two ears in a margarine tub in the kitchen."

"Ears, huh?" 

Sherlock could feel John's laughter against his body. "Yes. I used the brand of margarine you don't like, so you wouldn't open the tub." He paused, then went on. "One of the ears is heavily pierced. I think I'm more likely to get a piercing than a tattoo."

"Not your ears, though, I bet," John said.

"No," Sherlock agreed, then gasped as John took his right earlobe into his mouth. That was...unexpected. "I'm ready to keep going now," he said. 

"Okay," John whispered, mouth still close to his ear. "Okay, Sherlock. So am I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Hope you enjoyed these ficlets!

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in more seasonal fun, I have written two other series of Christmas ficlets, each with a different focus.
> 
> [Breaking Christmas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8733127/chapters/20021335) is established relationship Johnlock and [Imagine the Christmas Dinners](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5337185/chapters/12323552) is Johnlockary with a generous helping of Parentlock. I hope you'll give them a try!
> 
> Or subscribe to me as an author if you're interested in whatever I might write next. Thank you!
> 
> I'm also on [ Tumblr!](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/)


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